


Of the Heart

by djinnj, smutty_claus



Series: Moments [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djinnj/pseuds/djinnj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutty_claus/pseuds/smutty_claus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleur may have to work with Bill but she doesn't have to like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written by djinnj as part of the Smutty Claus exchange.
> 
> Notes:  
> * This takes place shortly after _Goblet of Fire_ and Fleur is 18/19.  
>  * There is a 'dvd extra' deleted sex scene posted as Chapter 2 of this story. It can be read alone; note that it contains foodsex.

  
**To: karasu_hime  
From: Your Secret Santa**   


> **Title:** Of the Heart  
>  **Author:** [djinnj](http://djinnj.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Pairing:** Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley  
>  **Summary:** Fleur may have to work with Bill but she doesn't have to like him.  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Length:** 25,000wds  
>  **Warnings:** none  
>  **Author's notes:** Huge thanks to the everlasting patience of our wonderful mod and my terrific beta/cheerleader. I hope this story pleases! 

 

*** ONE ***

 

Fleur Delacour was plotting, which could be a dangerous proposition if only the people around her knew to be wary. Her friend Beatrice would have taken one look at the set of Fleur's jaw and the look in her eye and could have warned them, but Beatrice was in Lausanne pursuing Charms research.

This was Fleur's seventh full day of working in the Gringotts research hall three days a week and it was the beginning of her third week residing in London. All this time and she still had progressed absolutely no where in her plan. She found this unacceptable.

In her time in London she had done so little. Choosing lodging with a respectable and motherly acquaintance of her paternal uncle had been less than nothing; an inquiry and a brief meeting at the house had been enough. Fleur liked Mrs Plimpton's salty tongue and forthright speech and was starting to suspect there was some unfinished business of a romantic nature with her uncle about which she truly did not wish a deeper knowledge. Her rent was moderate, the room was clean and comfortable if decorated in a fashion she would not have chosen, and she had permission to use the kitchen if she desired something other than the provided meals. The other lodgers, two women who worked at the Ministry of Magic in administrative capacities, had no interest in getting to know her at all which both suited her and did not surprise her.

In that first week after work and on her days off she had familiarized herself with landmarks in both Diagon Alley and Greater London. That had involved quite a lot of walking and studying the Muggle transit system as she could not apparate blind and did not wish to floo everywhere. That part had been rather peaceful, actually. Muggles were less susceptible to her innate field of influence and aside from a tentative question asking if she was someone she had never heard of and the occasional catcall the infrequent use of a notice-me-not spell was enough for her to remain unmolested.

Once she felt she would not be turned around or helpless should she be unable to apparate or floo she began her search in earnest. But the newspapers and other periodicals were almost as useless as the wireless. All she had learned was that the English were inordinately fond of that Warbek Witch's inability to choose a note when singing and that the press was scrambling to discredit Professor Dumbledore and anyone sharing his views. Worse, the government appeared to be in entire agreement. She had irritably sipped mediocre coffee after she incinerated the latest issue of the _Daily Prophet_ in annoyance, startling those present at breakfast.

Perhaps it was a little lonely, too. She had not expected that. After all, boarding at Beauxbatons had accustomed her to being away from home and she had only a few close friends. But this was different. Starting school had had anticipation and a glimpse of the greater world she wanted to explore. It had had the familiarity of childhood friends and acquaintances and the knowledge that the first of her many cousins would be old enough to join her the following year. Over time the school had become a bridge to that future she wanted to grasp with both hands and experience to its fullest. In London she felt stifled, bound like the Thames to regimented banks and flow instead of the great free expanse of the sea. And worse, there was no one to understand. Gabrielle was a child yet and Fleur kept her letters to her sister circumspect and chatty. Those to her parents were vague and unexceptional, suitable almost for public consumption. Here there was only Mrs Plimpton who preferred to speak of her own interests, and Amabel Crimble who worked at the desk beside hers at Gringotts.

Amabel was a rather plain girl a little older than Fleur with mousy brown hair and a sweet smile who proved the truth of her name daily in her amiability and generosity. But two weeks acquaintance was still only the beginnings of a friendship. It was not tested enough for Fleur to explain the real reason she was in London 'improving her English' leaving behind her home and family, her friends and her intention to seek a spell architecture specialization at Lattes. And it definitely was not enough to share the frustration she felt making no progress at all here in London. Somewhere there were preparations being made and things to do, but she could not find them. Her letters to both Madame Maxime and Professor Dumbledore remained unanswered despite the latter's emphasis on international Wizarding cooperation. Since the top did not answer her, she must look for someone not quite so high. If she could find someone was the only difficulty.

A buzz of muttered conversation rippled through the room like wind over a wheat field and broke through Fleur's concentration on the two matters at hand, her work and her plan. She looked up from the heavy volume on late Byzantine succession and inheritance curses and glanced over to the source of the hubbub.

There were three Goblins walking with two men. That was not in itself terribly unusual of a Monday morning in the Gringotts research room except that one of the Goblins was upper management. His rank was clear in the cut of his lapels and in the deference given him by Gornuk and Nagrod. Even after only two weeks working at the bank Fleur knew that the Goblins of higher position preferred to avoid the Human Resources Department as much as possible.

Of the two men, one was that wart Carruthers who liked to jocularly proposition her with what he erroneously thought was devil-may-care charm every time they crossed paths in the corridors. The other was much more worthy of attention and... familiar. Fleur looked more closely; tall, broad shouldered without excess bulk, he possessed a loose-limbed grace that spoke of wider spaces and greater vistas than the echoing stone research room with its rows of desks and books and gossip. He was _roux_ , that was definitely familiar; his coppery auburn hair was tied back with a thin twist of leather at his nape. His white teeth flashed a sudden, ready smile and there was the glint of an earring as he turned, gestured to the outer wall and said something that made Carruthers look dubious and then surprised as the high ranking Goblin nodded his agreement, grunted something in Gobbledegook to the familiar stranger and then briskly left.

There was a great pretense of working as they watched Gornuk trace the rough outline of a doorway on the outer wall with a bit of chalk and enlarge it with a gesture. Nagrod said something, again in Gobbledegook, that caused the stranger to grin as Gornuk looked him up and down and then expanded the chalk outline a bit more. Gornuk made a grasping gesture in front of the outline and pulled back as if dragging a reluctant cork from a very tight bottle. Pausing with his fist trembling with tension, he said something to Nagrod who shrugged and gave a short, gravelly laugh. There was a small scraping noise and the chalk line began to pull the wall away. Gornuk pulled a little harder and the crack opened a little more, a protrusion appearing opposite where he continued to pull. Then with a 'pop' the wall sprang into a plain wooden door, the brass doorknob slapping solidly into his palm as the door swung wide easily. It revealed a small empty office with a window overlooking what was most likely Fisk Alley.

“A window, he must be a big smell.” This murmur from Amabel to her right distracted Fleur from watching the stranger transfigure a table and chairs out of paper clips liberated from Ernie Finster's elaborate Venus of Office Supplies.

“'A big smell'? How silly; a charm would be less trouble.” That most certainly did _not_ lead her to wonder if he smelled like leather. The office door closed with all four inside leaving nothing left to watch and the buzz of gossip increased in volume.

“What? Oh!” Amabel laughed loud enough that a few heads turned their way. “No, it means he's important, right? Someone you notice.”

Fleur realised at that moment where she had noticed this someone not so very long ago. The Triwizard Tournament, before the third task he and an older woman had visited with Harry Potter. She had not spoken with them and was unsure of their exact relationship to Harry, but the common theme of red hair suggested that he was some connection to Harry's dear friend who had helped rescue Gabrielle from the lake. She looked down at her book and forced herself to read a sentence and comprehend it. Her mother had teased her about her interest in the handsome stranger. That day had begun so happily with their families and so much anticipation and it had ended.... Well, it had ended many things.

“Hey, you all right?”

“I think his surname must be 'Weasley'.” Fleur said. “I have seen him before, but we have not met.”

That appeared to satisfy Amabel and Finster walked up just then to share what he had overheard. He confirmed what they had gathered from watching as well as the name. According to the plate that had popped into existence on the door he was one 'W. Weasley, Curse Breaker', and also 'Section Leader'. No section had been specified that he could tell and his Gobbledegook was not good enough to follow everything that had been said.

“Bit of a shake up, yeah? Carruthers's been angling for an office for more'n two years and this Weasley fellow comes in and gets a window like that,” he snapped his fingers.

“Oh, I hope he's better than Carruthers,” Amabel said, making a face. “You should have heard what he said to me yesterday in the tea room. And him married!”

“Anyone would be better than that Carruthers,” Fleur said dryly.

“Might not have anything to do with us,” Finster said. “Who knows when we'll find out what section he's heading. There aren't any open positions in Research. What's a Breaker doing here anyway?” And he filled the twenty minutes until the luncheon hour with idle speculation on why Weasley was nothing to do with them and probably a prat besides.

 

*** TWO ***

 

Fleur had no fear that the pressure of human curiosity would fail to discover everything there was to know about W. Weasley by the time she returned to work on Wednesday per her part-time schedule. She was not mistaken and it offered her a consolation from her continued lack of progress. It had taken her no time at all to conclude that a friend of Harry Potter's might know something of worth, have a connection or a clue where to begin.

She discovered for herself that the name plate now read 'Bill Weasley, Section Leader – Curse Binding', but it took gossip to inform her that he had changed that himself the previous morning. Gossip had also gleaned that he was 24 years old, Gryffindor which Fleur thought a rather foolish thing to waste interest upon, and that he not only wore an earring but that it was a claw or fang of some sort. He was also a Gruk level curse breaker with two sapphire recommendations in the last three years since joining Curse Breaking team Prospect 37 which everyone just called QED because it always delivered. This had impressed even the most skeptical.

The word was that he had chosen a desk job to 'settle down' despite the fact that he had worked his way up to a team not known for its retiring nature. Half were convinced that there was a woman involved and half were certain that he was quite unattached. After all, he had not mentioned anyone _and_ he had a wandering eye according to Charis Winthrop. This generated a tertiary buzz of interest and arrant, and to Fleur's mind entirely ridiculous, speculation that he was 'looking for a nice English girl'.

“After all,” Winthrop said in her penetrating voice to everyone in the vicinity. “He's sure to have years of hazard pay saved up to start a family. Quickest way to a tidy bit put aside and then it's easy living while he's still young enough to live a bit.” And she simpered in a most unattractive way.

Fleur rolled her eyes at that. Curse breakers regularly passed through the research room during brief visits to the London headquarters. “I think that they find curse breaking is living quite a lot. Diagon Alley is well enough but it is not the Valley of the Queens.”

“Well, you're foreign, you wouldn't understand. I'm sure he wants a taste of home. He's fit enough; I might try for him myself.” It was perhaps fortunate that Amabel rushed up then and prevented Fleur from remarking that indeed Winthrop was at least English and a girl.

“There's a meeting in 10 minutes in the median conference room! Some announcement or another. Everyone without a priority project is expected,” she told them. “Oh Fleur, I'm to tell Acquisitions too, and even Contracts! Save me a seat!” And then she dashed off to spread the word.

“I'll have him, you'll see,” Charis was boasting to her equally irritating compatriot, Annis Petersham of the adjoining desk, as they filed into the room. “I know the type and he won't refuse what I have to offer.”

Fleur sniffed and wondered what type that was. She could think it easily of Carruthers. Older than Weasley, he was handsome in a self-satisfied way and had far too little regard for his wedding ring and what it meant. He smiled like a used broom salesman. She should hope Weasley would be more discerning.

Amabel rushed in at the head of a group of vaguely familiar faces and plunked down in the seat next to her as Weasley and Carruthers walked in. Carruthers shifted the sheaf of papers in his hands and shut the door after the last straggler.

“Listen up,” Weasley said, calling the attention of the room as he walked to the front. "The higher ups have decided to change the screening and security process for incoming treasure,” there was a rustle from Acquisitions and Weasley nodded to them as he continued. “Both new acquisitions and flagged private holdings are to go through this process. I've sent a report to Acquisitions about how this affects the current system.”

“They've chosen me to head up the team to implement the new protocols with Carruthers here as second. I report directly to Ragnok and I'm free to pick anyone here but since there's a degree more risk involved than what most of you are used to I'm asking for voluntary transfers. No pay rise _per se_ , but there's a 3Gal per six day hazard bonus.” He grinned at the scoffing that rippled through the room.

“Never say Goblins don't know how to put self-worth into perspective, but this is a guaranteed bonus even if nothing goes 'boom'. I've spent the last week negotiating the parameters and configuring the new safety protocols. If we do this right overall security will increase and no one will get hurt. Most of the treasure is thoroughly field dressed by the best or comes with provenance that we can hope is legit. Still, this is no cauldron cake party; there's a very real risk hence the bonus. I expect everyone to be alert and serious about their work. Experience counts and I'm looking for Phi level or higher qualifications. I'll give you a moment to think about it.” And he and Carruthers had retired to watch them mull things over.

A few stood immediately and there was a thoughtful ripple of conversation as others shook their heads. Amabel regretfully whispered that the 3Gal bonus would be a nice little bit to put aside towards her wedding but she was woefully under-qualified. “My luck, I'd get my nose cursed off by a sugar bowl. Stu would understand but my mother would never forgive me!”

Fleur considered quickly. This would give her a chance to observe Weasley and speak to him if she thought he could help her. The work was more interesting as well. She nodded and stood with the other volunteers, confident she would be called upon. Her WV was lean on field experience outside the disastrous TriWizard Tournament, but she had easily qualified at the Alpha Pi level and her school exams had placed her tops in her class. New holdings rarely took more than a day to process so her part time schedule would not interfere, and she had already agreed with Gornuk when she was hired that she would increase her hours if specialized training was required. There was no good reason not to choose her.

And this was why she was so sure there was some error when Winthrop was called to the front of the room and she was not. Carruthers was handing out sheaves of parchment and Weasley was speaking again; it was clear they had the full compliment for his new team.

"Look these over and meet in workroom J after lunch, we'll get right into reviewing the new protocols and I'll take you to the new processing room. We're expected to begin implementation tomorrow whether we're ready or not and since we're more likely to get through this with skin intact if we're ready, you know the rest." This got a laugh as the room slowly emptied.

“I must speak with him, you go ahead,” she told Amabel.

Fleur edged purposefully through the press of people towards where Weasley and Carruthers were speaking with Winthrop by the door. She was pleased to see her walk away as she drew closer, and she hoped that no one else would buttonhole the men before she could get to them. Then she heard Carruthers pose the same question she intended to ask and she slowed, allowing herself to be delayed behind a large fellow in the crowd.

“So why not Delacour? She's got the chops if her Wizarding Vitae is anything to go by." The two men glanced her way and she feigned fascination for her watch, three minutes to the first luncheon break. They clearly did not realize she was in earshot.

"Paper is all well and good but she's too young, too green, and too much of a distraction. I have to work with you, Carruthers. I want your mind on the job and not in your pants. Or hers."

Fleur stiffened and she firmed her jaw. Beatrice would have been tugging on her arm and pulling her out of the room before she could set fire to something. Fleur took a deep breath as the congestion before her eased enough to pass through. She could not burn any bridges here; Weasley might still prove to have information. But she was too angry to speak civilly to him at that moment and knowing herself she chose to stalk past him, studiously doing her best to ignore both men.

Somehow she caught his eye anyway and he nodded politely. Her lip curled at this too little too late gesture and gave him a look to depress pretension before making her escape. She overheard Carruthers asking "What's that about?" as she whisked herself away to smart in private, missing Weasley's puzzled frown.

 

*** THREE ***

 

Given this auspicious start one would think things could only get better. They did not.

First impressions of tall, lean and warm faded before arrogant, tiresome, and prat. Fleur rolled that last word around her mouth and decided she liked it. She got more practice than she anticipated in its use, too. She would have preferred to observe him from afar to see if he was of any use to her, which she took leave to doubt. However, Weasley's special unit constantly required extra work from the research pool and once the others realized she disliked him several found no greater amusement than to shunt his requests her way. Amabel was bewildered by her change in sentiment but did her best. Unfortunately, there was only so much she could do.

“I'm sorry, Fleur, but I really have to finish this for Griphook. He's not so _very_ bad, is he? He's always nice to me.”

“He is insufferable, and he need not think he has but to smile and all is well. I am not Winthrop,” she said tossing her hair in disdain. Not that she was seeing his smile directed towards herself anymore. She made no effort to hide her displeasure and every time they met his mouth was a little thinner and his frown a little deeper.

“Delacour, I have another priority job. Cross reference the cadet lines of this pureblood family with notable curse development. I need it in my hands as soon as you have compiled it,” he had said this time, looking positively grim.

Fleur huffed in annoyance. There was the additional fact that for someone who had returned to England for a desk job, he was very rarely _at_ his desk. She had done the work for him, in excellent time despite needing to consult no less than three Ministry file systems, and once again his office was empty. Apparently he used it for document storage and his tawny owl, and even that was absent from its perch next to the open window. Instead, there was a barn owl and an eagle owl both waiting to have their letters removed since his privacy warded owl post box was full. They clacked their beaks at her as she drew near, indicating they were recipient only. He had clearly been absent most of the day.

She was tempted to leave the report on his desk but he had wanted it in his hands and she did not think he had been speaking figuratively. She had worked on enough reports for him now that she knew the difference. He was most likely in the workroom they had fitted up in the otherwise deserted corridor next to the loading area, three flights up on the first level roof.

She arrived outside the workroom to find a knot of disheveled people speaking excitedly and Carruthers standing in front of the closed door attempting to be heard over the din. There was a bitter tang of burnt metal and ozone in the air.

“Oi, pipe down you lot! Anyone get tagged by the curse or debris?” There was some shuffling as people looked themselves and their neighbors over. “Delacour, something I can help you with?” Even with purple smoke rising from the shoulders of his robes and his hair blasted from its usual arrangement, he managed to leer suggestively at her.

“You are smoking. And I am looking for Weasley; I have his report. Where is he?” Fleur noticed a sooty Winthrop standing to the left, looking displeased and futilely attempting to primp her flattened curls.

Carruthers gave a startled imprecation and tore off his robe to examine it, saying distractedly “He's inside,” and jerking his head to the closed door.

“Inside!”

“Someone has to lock things down.” He was peering anxiously over his shoulder, trying to view his back.

Just then the door opened and Weasley stepped out, shutting it firmly behind him. A fine haze of purple smoke clung to him briefly before dissipating. “Everyone all right?” He looked over to Carruthers who shrugged while displaying his now heavily smoking robes, and relaxed a little.

“If anyone else has been tagged, go with Carruthers. You'll need to write this up and get it looked at. Don't think it's harmless if it hit your clothes; _Fervefacius_ will continue to heat up for a few hours. Have it seen to immediately and don't come back until you're cleared. The rest of you, take a break and be back in an hour. It's secure now but the room is full of smoke and needs to vent. Yes, Delacour?”

Fleur was a little startled at his quick turn to her. He had been so clearly focused on the moment with his team, his eyes bright and his colour high. She reluctantly had to admit to herself that it was unfortunate that he was so detestable. He looked very much in his element.

“Your report,” she said, handing it to him as the corridor emptied.

“Brilliant! Wait a moment, yeah?” he said, flashing a grin at her as he took it and flipped through it, clearly too distracted by the curse to remember she hated him.

“Bugger....” He called after a straggler removing a smoking shoe. “Dash, tell them it's definitely a Carrow cadet. We'll need to go over everything again to make sure the _Fervefacius_ didn't destabilise the other curses.” Dash nodded and hurriedly limped after the others with her shoe in her hand.

“Well?” Fleur asked as he looked likely to dive back into the report and she had work to do. They were alone in the corridor now. He folded the report closed and looked at her, his mood appeared to shift as his expression became troubled. She tapped her foot in annoyance.

“You have something else for me to do, yes?”

His mouth quirked a little and he took a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Perhaps.”

A privacy charm tingled lightly against her fingers and then faded away. The note was from Albus Dumbledore. It was brief, slightly cryptic, and after apologising for the delay it said if she was still committed to her course of action they would welcome any assistance she could offer to the bearer of the note until such time she should hear from him again. As she read through the note again Weasley silently put up a trip ward to warn if someone approached. She looked up at him dubiously.

“Look, I know you don't like me, yeah? But I'm the one you've got and this isn't about me.” He was frowning again. “And it's dangerous, a lot more dangerous than that in there,” he jerked his thumb at the closed door. “You have to be sure.”

She rolled her eyes at that and finally let her exasperation free. “I am sure. I have been very sure for many weeks. And you? Are you sure? You would not have me for your section team after all.”

His smile was wry as he said “I'm not the one choosing, here.”

She straightened to her tallest, most elegant and poised stance slightly disgruntled that he was still 4 centimetres taller than she even when he was standing with his weight negligently balanced on one hip. “And I have nothing to prove to you. I will do this.”

A brief searching look at her that made her wonder what he saw and he nodded, firming his mouth and saying “Right. You have tomorrow off, yeah? I need you to get everything on this list and hold it for me until after I finish here. Discreetly, if that's possible.” He emphasized the last as he took another slip of parchment from his pocket and gave it to her. It bore a strong resemblance to a month's shopping for a family of 12. She considered how much money she would need to change for everything on the list, and how she would do it without drawing attention to herself.

“I should bring them where?” She asked, pocketing the list. “The ones I live with may ask questions.”

“Right...” he tore a corner off the cover of the report, pulled a pencil from his back pocket and scribbled an address. “Meet me there at half six. I'll reimburse you and we'll talk about what to do next.”

“Good.” She laid the note from Professor Dumbledore in her palm as he watched her curiously. She levitated and incinerated it with a flick of her wand. The ashes collected in her palm and she crushed them together and then _Scourgified_ her hand. The smell of burnt parchment was quickly lost in the lingering reek of curse smoke.

“What will you tell them?” He gestured toward the floor in the direction of the research room and she considered.

“Nothing. If I do not like you they give me all your work to do. And I do not like you.” That prompted a rueful laugh from him and she considered a little more. “But I will tell Mrs Plimpton, whose house I stay at, that I am having English lessons from you, yes?”

“All right. And if anyone asks I'll tell them the same. Although your English is very good.”

 

*** FOUR ***

 

The address took Fleur to a small block of depressing looking flats on a London side street. Several Muggle children of various ages were shrieking and laughing in the late afternoon sun as they raced up down in heavy boots with wheels attached to them. A pair of girls were playing some game with chalk marks, pebbles and bits of broken toys on the pavement while another skipped rope in time to their chant nearby.

The architecture was uninspiring and there were too few trees but it felt safe. She noticed a nearby alley that looked suitable for apparation. Glancing around, no one paid the least attention to her as she walked into the alley to look around some more.

There was a bend in the narrow passage to the adjacent street that provided a bit of additional cover. It would do, and she shifted the heavy string bag in her hand as she memorized the place. The crack!of apparation had her with her back to the wall and her wand in her hand in a blink before she realised it was Weasley. He said nothing of her dueling stance as he put away his own wand.

“You're early. Is that the...?” She nodded and allowed him to take the bag from her as she tried to calm her racing heart. “Muggle shopping, excellent. Did you have any trouble changing the currency?”

“I changed it via owl post. No one observed me and only the goblin who processed the transaction would know. I do not think that they will care.”

“Good, they'll keep confidentiality. They may not be on our side, but they're not on theirs either.” Some children raced across the front of the alleyway, their footsteps echoing off the walls for a moment as if there were an army passing through. “We can't talk here; you'd better come up.”

No one paid them any mind as they walked across to his building, or as he dragged a key ring from his jeans pocket and opened the main door. It was disturbingly ordinary. He retrieved a pile of gaudy papers and circulars from a locked compartment and then led her up the dim stairwell to a first floor Muggle flat.

The flat was quite small and rather bare. There was a room off the passageway from the front door that overlooked the street with a narrow window, the curtains drawn. Fleur's curious peep noted that it had a bed and a nightstand and not much else. The passageway widened out somewhat uselessly for a ways with the ceiling following the angle of the stairwell to the next floor. In that space was a broom stand with a broom, an umbrella, and an incongruous pair of green wellies. The passageway ended in a larger room that had Muggle kitchen furnishings along a wall and ended in a tiny WC. The opposite wall had two windows and managed to contain a small sofa and an owl perch. The only other furniture was a minute table with two chairs set against the outside of the bedroom wall. The counters and surfaces were empty except for a few books, a small clock on the nightstand in the bedroom, and a lamp in the kitchen area.

“I don't stay here much, maybe once or twice a week,” he explained as he set the bag down on the table and glanced through the post before banishing the lot. He retrieved a paper sac from a cabinet and filled the water and food dishes of the owl perch and moved aside the curtains to open the window. “And there's no floo, but it's safe as I can make it without involving anyone else.”

“Then you do not live here,” she said looking at him thoughtfully.

“No, I use this more as a staging area, and if I don't want to bring 'work' home.”

“Hm,” was all she said. He could have his secrets; it was not as if she was interested.

“The shopping I asked you to do is for a safe house I'm to establish in case of need.” He looked at her dubiously, apparently taking in her white blouse, long, loose skirt and soft sandals. “The property has been secured and I'm going there tonight to repair and stock it but if the word is accurate it's going to be a lot of work setting it to rights. Smashed windows, water and animal damage, maybe even structural problems. It's not glamorous but it's important. You up for it?”

Perhaps she would have to prove herself to this Weasley after all. If only to scrub away the idea that she was some delicate flower afraid to get her hands dirty.

“I am up for anything.”

And so it began. Weasley had not exaggerated about the little house he apparated them to that evening. It was in a remote location with a tree as big around as Fleur's own waist growing up through the paving stones before the front door and more broken windows than whole ones. It looked like no one had cared for it in a hundred years.

“We should do a survey of the structure. I'll take the broom up and look at the roof. I think the scrub's too thick to look at the foundation. That will have to wait.” And he had jumped onto his broom and whisked up with no further ado.

Fleur looked around with a critical eye and catalogued all that needed to be done to set just the exterior to rights. She tied her hair up in a knot at the nape of her neck with a homely little spell, transfigured her sandals into plimsoles, and made a decision. The tree would have to go.

A simple severing spell in conjunction with levitation had the tree down in a trice, and she quickly stripped the branches. Weasley landed his broom as she was splitting the logs and floating them into a stack against the side of the dilapidated shed to season.

“You're good at that. How are you at shingling roofs?” He grinned, windblown and bright eyed.

“The roof, it is intact?”

“Yeah, quite a few shingles down but no major damage I can see from the outside. There may be some leaking, but no visible structural damage. I'll have to check for rot and bundimuns.”

“I shall leave the roof to you,” she declared magnanimously, pretending not to notice his exuberance as he lept back into the air with a laugh.

Her severing spell and levitation charms were given a work out as she proceeded to uproot and cut down the scrub and small trees that crowded the foundation, pausing now and again to identify and free something desirable from under the choking weeds or to reapply an insect repelling charm. Even clearing only a bare two metres around the foundation she was blowing and overwarm, with a pile of rubbish as tall as herself by the time she had circumnavigated the house.

Weasley landed his broom again looking fresh as a nosegay as she stood back considering, blotting the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.

“You could go up for a while if you want to cool off. Tea?” And he offered her a flask which she accepted, pouring out a cup.

“August, fixing a house, and hot tea. You English are mad. You may have your broom, I have real work to do,” she said loftily, ignoring the fact that all the windows were sparklingly clean and intact and also that the creepers that had climbed over the house from a few large overhanging trees were gone as were the encroaching branches. The stone walls were scrubbed and the roof was no doubt in good order as well. The wood pile she had started had grown considerably. “Although you may wish to know there is a crack in the foundation, there.”

She led him to the spot and sipped her tea, watching as he tapped his wand around the messy fissure in the mortar where stones had slowly shifted loose. He did this a few times and listened for something.

“Dirt, a mole, and roots.” He tapped the topmost finger of the crack and spoke a spell in a language that was tantalizingly familiar but unintelligible to her. They watched as the crack slowly filled with golden sand growing from where his wand had struck the opening and radiating out along all the lines, even small flaws that they had not noticed in the rough surface of the mortar. The sand grew and grew, the grains jostling each other and slipping down into the crack steadily until they reached the soil and the only intimation that the spell continued to work was a small disturbance in the dirt. “I think that's the mole,” he said as they watched the small tunnel gradually move away from the house.

Before the mole reached the line of untouched brush, the sand in the flawed foundation made a crackling noise and he tapped it again. It glowed as if white hot for a moment although Fleur noticed no heat, and then it melted together into what appeared to be clear glass before fading into the mortar and stone around it, looking for all intents and purposes like an undamaged stretch of foundation. Weasley tapped it again, listened, and looked pleased.

“Wasn't sure if that would work. Could've taken down the whole foundation.” Fleur gave him a look and returned his flask. “What?”

She shook her head and wondered how someone who looked so boyish and carefree, glowing with a sort of blatant animal vitality in the burst of russet light from the setting sun could possess a mind that so inspired in her the desire to smack him.

The undisturbed weeds, scrub and small trees in the garden formed a rough barrier around the house, thickening in darkness as the sun sank lower on the horizon. She walked around to the front of the house as the shadows deepened. The house was much more presentable now, the warm reds and golds of the setting sun reflecting back in the new upper windows, their clean white frames stark against the weathered stone. Fleur shivered a little as dark shadows of tree branches crept up the walls, blotting out the sun and recreating for a moment the wreck they had begun to reclaim. She shook off the impression and turned to Weasley as he walked up.

“Inside, I think. Before it is entirely dark.”

He looked at her with a small frown, the earlier levity gone.“Why don't we eat something first? It's getting late and it's a big job.” He turned and frowned up at the house. “More than a day or even a couple days, to be honest.”

She made an impatient sound. “And it will not be done for waiting. We should work, not eat.”

“And it won't be done if you fall down from exhaustion or hunger, either. It's half eight, unless you've had dinner already you'll need this. And even if you don't, I do. You haven't had dinner already, have you?” She said nothing and he lit the tip of his wand as the light continued to fade, then summoned the box of supplies he had brought along with her string bag of shopping. “ I didn't think so.”

She hugged her arms around herself as the evening grew cool, looking up at the house, the blank windows now dark. Night noises began and something small rustled in the weeds. A bat flew overhead, its shrill voice audible at the edge of her hearing.

“Delacour... Fleur, come eat.” His voice was too soft to startle her but she jerked to looked at him with her eyes large and dilated, shivering and unaccountably afraid. Her eyes slid past his concerned face and stared blindly at the pool of light next to him. There was a small table and two chairs very much like the ones in his flat. He had set the table with a simple meal of bread and cheese and fruit, but there were plates and tea from his flask steaming in proper cups and a lamp spilling warm light over everything.

“I thought you English did not like to use first names,” she said flatly.

“Your last name is too hard to say,” he said promptly, the hint of a lingering frown belying the frivolity of this obvious falsehood. “You should call me 'Bill' so we're even.”

She was suddenly too tired to challenge him and nodded. She sat down in one of the chairs and reached for the tea wishing it was coffee. “'Bill', then.”

Conversation was slow at first but Fleur soon realized that Weasley's, that _Bill's_ tongue ran on rails if he chose. Finally annoyed at the inconsequentiality of his one sided comments, she joined in with a blunt and rather rude observation about the subject of newt eye prices and he grinned and allowed her to lead the conversation, a proper one this time. They talked of Gringotts and what next to do with the house and a very little bit about home.

“Sometimes I mix it up, yeah? I smell my mum's cooking and hear the shifting sand and forget for a minute which one's real.” He looked thoughtfully at his tea as she tried to think of a response to this. And then he grinned. “But then one of my brothers' shoes comes flying out of nowhere to hit me on the head and I remember I'm really home dreaming of a little peace and quiet.”

She remembered the previous day's curse fracas which paled in significance to the kinds of risks Curse Breakers took routinely, and rolled her eyes.

The rest of the evening was filled with scrubbing and testing the floors and walls for dry rot and wet rot, cleaning up mildew and ripping out a carpet full of mushrooms, eradicating rats nests and doxies, and checking for bundimuns. As anticipated, they were unable to finish that night. They did what they could but shortly before 11pm Fleur admitted defeat and saw it in the weariness around Bill's eyes as well. They agreed to return early on the Saturday to continue and then apparated to their separate abodes, neither of which was home.

 

*** FIVE ***

 

August slipped away as quickly as July had but more satisfactorily. Fleur spent many of her days off in the next few weeks working on the house with or without Bill until the garden was tamed and the house no longer smelled of rot and neglect. They replaced floorboards, fixed the pump, cleared the chimney, stocked the cupboards with staples and medicinal supplies, hung curtains, brought in furniture and bedding, and on and on until the house was spartan but livable, comfortable if one were resourceful. In unspoken agreement, they used only classes of spells that would persist regardless of the well-being of the caster.

She knew that she was not a full part of what Albus Dumbledore was creating. Bill was her only contact and he could not work on the house as often as he liked, referring cryptically to other tasks and meetings to which she was not privy. But there was something visceral about the work that gave her patience through the tedium and weariness, and she did not mind being alone so much. Bill exasperated her regularly but there was still the relief of having someone who _knew_. The grim knowledge of what the house represented overshadowed the work, but she took comfort in the simple pleasure of ordering, renewing and reclaiming, in the satisfaction of a task to be accomplished, and in the sting of her tired muscles at the end of the day that sent her effortlessly to dreamless sleep. She did not even mind Mrs Plimpton's comments about how well her 'lessons' were going, or her knowing looks.

Her last self appointed task for the house was to revive the remains of a small potions garden she had found whilst ripping out the weeds and brush. A few common herbs had run amok whilst the more fragile were barely hanging on or gone entirely. That Saturday she talked sternly to the offenders before trimming them back and then she planted and mulched, strawed up and staked up, and cast her favorite growing spells over all. With a little care and attention the plot would be well established in time to put to bed for winter.

And then it was Monday again and Gringotts and gossip and office politics and the kidnapping of Finster's Venus by another office that had stayed the weekend to put out their quarterly review. It was returned to Finster's desk that morning without its binder clip arms but with a risque outfit in notepads and spello-tape.

Annis Petersham had filled Winthrop's place as the loudest gossip in the research room, and this morning was no different. Fleur attempted to ignore her but the unexpected mention of Harry Potter caused her to look over quickly.

“What was that?”

“This story's worthy of Harry Potter, it is. Who would believe that about Becks and nixies anyway? He's ninety if he's a day.” And Petersham pointed to the latest _Daily Prophet_ reading out “'Becks, famous for Becks' Biting Bisque and Corn Salve claims the nixies danced in a circle and then offered him gold and elf made wine to be their king but disappeared when his kettle whistled. His broken lobster pots remain unexplained.'”

“And why do you say 'Harry Potter'? This is nothing to do with Harry Potter.”

“La di da, dear, it's just an expression. It's such a shame that poor boy's gone round the twist. Turned by the fame, Charis says.”

Fleur looked at Petersham as if she were an insect to be skewered.

“Do you know Harry Potter? Have you met him? Have you talked to him at all? Or does all your 'information' come from that... that...,” she did not have a word in English sufficiently scornful for the _Daily Prophet_.

“It's common knowledge; no need to be in such a taking over it,” Petersham shrugged, not realizing how close she came to having her hair set on fire. Fleur took a deep breath.

“Me, I have met Harry Potter. I know him and this? This you say of him? It is nonsense and falsehood. It is _lies_ spread by lazy tongues and stupid minds. He is a very brave boy and not at all this _idiot_ you make of him.”

“Do you really think so? He seemed so nice before, and I did feel so sorry for him about the girl, you know.” Amabel said, looking anxiously between Fleur and Petersham.

Petersham smirked, “Oh she'll be well out of it, that one, and why feel sorry for him? He's a little boy! And we all know boys change their minds, don't they?”

Fleur felt blue fire crackle along her fingertips as she stood and Amabel quickly jumped in again.

“Some do, and some don't. How is Charis by the way?”

“Blooming! Just between us-” She leaned forward in a show of confidentiality, whispering penetratingly “I think her new beau has really turned her head. _So_ handsome, and attentive! But don't spread it about, right? She told me not to tell anyone; it's a terrible secret.” And she winked and then went elaborately demure as Bill walked over, looking puzzled at the tableau they made. Fleur was outraged and ramrod straight, her hair so full of energy it was moving subtly as if drifting in a breeze only she could feel. Amabel was jittery and anxious, looking between the two women as if unsure whom she would need to restrain first. And Petersham was complacent and oblivious, enjoying Fleur's displeasure. She took the opportunity to tweak her some more.

“If you're looking for someone, I think Delacour's free. The rest of us are all taken,” she said to Bill, with a sly glance at Fleur. Amabel who really was occupied with a long project for Griphook looked like she wanted to tackle Petersham and stuff a sock in her mouth, but she settled for twisting her hands anxiously together and mouthing _sorry_ to Fleur.

Fleur clenched her teeth and smiled in a rather frightening way at Petersham, which finally gave that one pause. Then she turned and directed her most dazzlingly sweet smile at Bill and accepted his latest request with a soft, melodious assent. She recognized the stunned look on his face and felt a pang of guilt and shame to have caved to baser impulse because of a small minded _bécasse_.

She could not eliminate the influence she had on the susceptible but she had lost the taste for playing to only that strength by the time she was fourteen. The sudden onset of girls hating her for being beautiful and of boys, and some girls, unable to speak a word of sense to her had been both painful and exhilarating, fun but ultimately frustrating. Two years of it had been enough for her to realize she would rather be hated for being her whole self, for her mind and her magic and her abilities and opinions, as well as for her face and form. She spoke her mind and heart, acted on her convictions, and took all the consequences as her due, even her failures and failings.

Bill might exasperate her but he was honest, and even if she did not like him she was comfortable with him and they worked well together. She virtuously resolved to be nicer to him without 'being nice to him' in the future and to give him the benefit of the doubt when he did something that made her want to shake him.

She brought his latest report to his office and he was there for once, standing at the window blindly looking out with a letter crushed in his hand. He looked upset and she hesitated long enough that he noticed her before she could knock.   “Come in,” he said, dropping the letter into his rubbish bin where it flared up in a small burst of flames and then fell to the bottom in a pile of cold ash. “Leave the door open, I'll put up a bubble.” He flicked his wand and a faint sheen appeared over the open doorway preventing anyone from having a clear idea of what was being said on the other side of the auditory barrier without blocking the sound entirely. To a casual observer it would seem like nothing had been done at all.

“You wish to talk, then?” She said as she handed him the report.

“Thank you. I wanted to tell you the house... it's done and they've secured it. We're not to go back.” He looked at her a little anxiously.

“Yes, and?” She asked, puzzled.

“That was it, they've put it under _Fidelius_. If you try to apparate there you could splinch....”

She gave him a look. “And I would not be able to apparate there because I would not be able to remember where it is.” She tried to think about the house for a moment and while her memories of individual moments were sharp and clear she could not quite place the location of the house nor could she verbalize exactly how to describe it or its surroundings. It remained just out of reach of recall. “That is very effective; I have not experienced that before.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You thought I would mind.”

He looked a little sheepish. “I thought you might like some notice. You did most of the work.”

She shrugged. “You exaggerate; a little more than half. And it is a house, it serves its purpose, yes? But my purpose, what am I to do next? Have you another house or something else?”

“There's a lead on another place.” He was unaccountably hesitant today and that annoyed her. She breathed deep and remembered her resolution.

“Well?”

“Don't know how long it will take them to secure it. I'll let you know as soon as we need your help.”

“Hm, then if there is nothing else I will go back to work.” She was about to step through the bubble when his next words stopped her.

“Fleur, earlier with Petersham....”

She whirled round and his solemn look set her teeth on edge. “Do not tell me I must be silent when these... these.... Bah!” He looked startled and raised his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Hey, wait, no! Not that.” She ground her teeth together and waited.

“Not that,” he said again and smiled wryly. “I've wanted to do the same for months.”

She blinked and relaxed a little, nonplussed.

“Look, should you have kept your calm? Maybe. But that horse has flown and we're not going to convince people like Annis Petersham that Harry and Dumbledore are telling the truth. That's what we're fighting against as much as You Know Who.” He grimaced and ran his hand through his hair. “I'm nobody; I have to pick my words, and that lot out there aren't my focus anyway. But you, maybe they'll remember what you've said about Harry later when it counts, yeah?”  

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Who is your focus?” He cocked a rueful smile at her and waited, nodding when the realization dawned on her face. She suddenly felt much more sympathetic. She did not think the Goblins were very receptive.

“Look, Dumbledore thinks you should come to a meeting and formally join us but I asked him to wait to bring you in, yeah?” 

Her sympathy changed just as quickly to outrage. “What, why? Am I not to be trusted? You cannot tell me my work is not good enough!”

“I know you can be trusted and Merlin, you're better than good enough, but you're not ready. Fleur, listen, you're _not ready_.”

She flared, her temper crackling and her hair stirring. “And you get to decide? For me? I was not ready at the third Task. I will not be 'not ready' again. Not ever again, do you hear me? I will fight his entire army alone if I must! I think it is you who are 'not ready'!”

He looked grim and a little sad. “I get to decide for you if you stay. It's your choice whether you stay or go.”

She gave him a look full of loathing. “I will stay,” and she turned and broke the bubble, escaping into the research room feeling her anger churning and fighting with her disappointment and the renewed vigor of that ever present feeling of rushing doom. She was ready, but there was no _time_.

 

*** SIX ***

 

The next week was unpleasant in a number of ways. Without the house or a new task to focus upon and by refusing to speak to Bill more than necessary, there was far too much time to think. Office chatter did not help.

“I think I know who Charis is seeing!” Amabel's voice was a squeaky whisper as she discussed the office's most pressing mystery. At Fleur's curious look she looked around and dropped her voice even more. “I think it's Weasley!” ending on another squeak.

Fleur shook her head unequivocally, wondering how people could be so blind and why the tiresome man could not leave her alone even in mention. “No, absolutely not. Impossible.”

“But Annis keeps dropping hints about how he's _so_ fit and _so_ charming; I know you don't like him but you have to admit he is! Fit and charming, that is. And Charis has to work with him so it's ever so much a secret. I think it must be him!”

Fleur sighed and directed the conversation to the much less vexing topic of whether Gornuk had instructed that newly generated reports only were to be submitted with the new nine page forms or all of the in-progress reports as well.

Away from work Fleur had to find things to fill her evenings and days off. She even flooed to Woolacombe on Thursday and sat on a cliff overlooking the water for as long as she could bear the brisk east wind. It was no _mistral_ but it chilled her nonetheless. She found the sea did not clear her head like it did at home.

This all left her feeling like the Red Queen, forever running to stay in the same place.

Mrs Plimpton shook her head over what she termed trouble in Paradise and told Fleur she should let her young man know what was good for him. That led to a long and unproductive conversation where Fleur signally failed to convince her landlady that the break in her 'English lessons' was innocent and that she was not and would never become romantically involved with Bill Weasley even if he were the last man alive. Mrs Plimpton simply nodded and said comfortably that she expected it would all blow over as soon as he realised kisses and a warm bed were better than fighting and apologised for whatever it was he had done.

Fleur, who was no blushing virgin, pressed her hands to her cheeks to cool the sudden rise in colour and angrily flushed the harder when the older woman chuckled and said “Aha, you know I'm right.”

There was no answer for that and Fleur holed herself in her room to read the latest letter from her sister. Gabrielle was full of stories of home and Maman and Papa, of the ducks chasing the little neighbor boy away from their pool, and how Mimi had had two funny little kittens that looked just like the tom with the torn ear that visited all summer. She had a new friend who could whistle any song through her teeth, and the two of them had gone to see _Cousine_ Amandine and her new school robes and her books and everything. _Tante_ Eugénie had bought her the most beautiful owl for school and she had named it 'Coco'. Oh, how they wished they were old enough for Beauxbatons, too! Gabrielle missed Fleur but it must be exciting to be in London instead of going back to school, although it didn't sound so much fun from her letters and Fleur must remember her own advice and not let people be mean to her. And also she mustn't forget that she promised she would be home for Christmas. That it was months and months and _forever_ away but that meant she wasn't allowed to forget, and to remember that _Père Noël_ didn't like it if people didn't keep their Christmas promises.

Fleur sat for a long time staring out the window, her sister's letter in her hand. It was the unexpected sound of footsteps and a knock on her door that roused her. She answered Mrs Plimpton's _Here's someone to cheer you up, dearie!_ with a vague acknowledgment and the door opened to show her self-satisfied landlady and one _persona non grata_ Bill Weasley.

“You two have a good long talk. Have it out; that's what me and my mister always do and it always sets things to rights in the end.” Then she shut them in chuckling softly, and walked away.

He looked out of place in the room, too tall, too vivid, and filling it up much more than he should.

“Er, I was going to wait outside but she insisted....” He ran his hand through his hair and looked uncomfortable.

Fleur studied him for a moment and finally sighed. “Sit down, please. You are too big to loom by the door like that.” She was in the only chair and after a brief pause he stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed so he could face her. He looked if anything even more out of place in his faded jeans and worn leather jacket against the candlewick counterpane.

“Look-”

“My cousin Amandine, she is eleven,” she interrupted. “She is at school tonight; away from home for the first time.”

When she did not fill the lengthening pause, he said, “My brothers and sister are back at school, too. Ron was made a Prefect; Mum's that proud of him.”

She looked down at the letter in her hand before laying it on the table, smoothing the parchment carefully and then folding her hands in her lap.

“Your brother Ron, who helped with Gabrielle. I do not forget. You must also be proud.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Yeah, I am. He's a good kid and it's hard for him being the youngest of the boys.”

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

“... There's something you can help me with, if you want.” This did not seem like what he had meant to say earlier but she let it pass.

“All right.”

And that was how Fleur came to spend much of the weekend in Bill's small Muggle flat, the two of them repairing brooms. Bill brought in a wireless to 'liven things up' he said, but she suspected it was to provide a distraction from lack of conversation. That proved not to be a problem as Fleur took the opportunity to enumerate the manifold failings of the British Wizarding Radio Service. From there they went on much as they had before.

Tuesday, she spent the day buying dry goods, canned food, and sundries again, spreading her purchases out to different shops to avoid comment. In the evening he apparated them to a small abandoned shack on the edge of a remote heath and the two of them pushed the back wall into wizard space. They, or rather Bill, tested all the brooms over the heath as the sun dipped toward the horizon. He had offered her the task clearly thinking it a treat and she finally admitted that she did not care for broomflight.

“It is not the height; it is the broom itself,” she explained. “They are so flimsy! A carpet would be much better, and more comfortable, too.” She made a face. “I cannot understand how you men like riding on brooms so much.” That made him laugh. He took to the air, swinging in a great loop gaining speed until his hair whipped back from his face, a few strands pulling free from the tie at his nape. He flew faster, higher and higher, and she thought she caught the sound of a whoop. She shook her head and went back to the shack.

While he was aloft she created shelves and neatly stocked the bolt hole with supplies, bedrolls, and blankets. Bill eventually returned looking tousled and refreshed, all the brooms proven to be functioning well within acceptable norms or easily adjusted in the moment. They stowed several in the shack with the other supplies and Bill took the rest somewhere unspecified when they separated for the evening.

The week went on and into the next and the next after that. If there was something she could do, Bill would inform her at the office or send her an owl on her days off to meet him after work if she was available. She always was. In this way they stocked two more bolt holes and did minor renovations on another small house for which she could no longer remember the location.

His notes never contained any details or information that could raise suspicion. The latest said _6pm, there's someone I want you to meet. - Bill_

She stared at this note for a long minute, and then firmed her jaw and nodded. Mrs Plimpton shook her head at what Fleur chose to wear; a dark grey pencil skirt that ended mid-calf, low shoes, a white blouse and a pale blue, close fitting jumper under the rain cloak that had already become part of her regular London outerwear.

“That's not going to impress his parents, dearie. Why don't you dress it up a little?”

Fleur had given up trying to persuade Mrs Plimpton that she was mistaken and merely smiled and shook her head before apparating to the alley near Bill's flat. He was waiting for her, tapping a furled umbrella against his leg and looking slightly preoccupied.

He acknowledged her greeting and said “They want us early so you have a chance to meet everyone who can make it. Do you have any questions before we go?” She debated asking him what had changed.

“No, let us go.”

He extended his arm to her and she held on through the familiar sensation of his side-along apparation. They arrived in a street where the rain had lately been, the grey and dismal scene more so with the wet pavement and the still dripping trees. She read a sentence in spidery handwriting off a slip of paper that erased itself as soon as she committed its words to memory and she watched as their destination expanded before them, grey and glowering.

She followed Bill up the worn steps where he tapped the doorknob with his wand. The door ponderously unlocked.

“Speak softly and try not to make too much noise. I'll explain once we're out of the front hall,” he said, voice low. Fleur nodded and glided in before him, her footsteps silent on the worn carpet. He locked the door behind them and led her down a dim, musty hall full of faded and rotting glory. The place stank of dark magic, jangling across her nerves like an out of tune harp string softly being plucked over and over again.

Bill carefully deposited his umbrella in amongst many others in a hideous troll foot stand as they passed some curtains and the foot of stairs leading up to the dark second level.

She shuddered a little and turned up her nose at the line of house elf heads mounted on the wall as they reached an unobtrusive door at the far end of the entrance hall. It was papered and paneled like the rest of the hallway and in just as poor condition. When Bill pulled it open it briefly looked like a piece of the wall falling away.

“You get used to it,” He said quietly as they descended the stairs. There was something curious about the way he said it.

“Do you really?”

He did not speak for several steps and then sighed ruefully. “Not exactly. It surprises you less. And I've been in worse, just never had to live in them.” That clarified a number of things.

“It is dreadful,” she said firmly.

They reached a large, open kitchen that appeared to span the entire house. A number of people were seated around a heavy wooden table speaking in low tones.

“There's a nasty portrait in the front hall that makes a racket if we wake her up. We meet down here, mostly; meetings often end in dinner. Mum takes it as a point of pride that no one leaves here hungry.” He took her cloak and hung it with his jacket on an overstuffed coat rack.

“Bill!” An older woman stood and hurried over. Fleur recognized her as that same woman who had accompanied him to the Triwizard Tournament. “Don't keep her standing there in the draft; you know better than that.” Then she turned to Fleur and offered her hand. “Hello dear, you don't know me at all but I saw you at Hogwarts; I'm Molly Weasley. Come in before you're chilled to the bone. We're just waiting for Professor Dumbledore.”

“Hullo, Mum,” Bill said. Fleur caught the hint of a laugh in his voice as she was pulled forward into the room and introduced to the people now standing and staring at her in varying degrees of interest.

Arthur Weasley was kindly, and standing next to Molly Weasley it was clear which parent had given Bill his height and which his managing temperament. Remus Lupin was serious and kept his secrets behind a thoughtful expression and habit of listening. He turned that often to the man standing next to him. Sirius Black was known to her by reputation and she resolved to ask Bill about his history; he had a dissolute and reckless air strangely at odds with his dour expression and obvious sobriety. Then he bade her welcome to his ancestral home with a sudden gleam of humour and it was as if a veil lifted and showed him youthful and undimmed for a brief moment. As the round of introductions and small chatter pulled her to the next person she just caught his murmured aside to Bill _You're a better man than I_ but had no chance to puzzle over its implications.

Mundungus Fletcher was an unfortunate combination of objectionable habits and smells who began speaking very fast about how he was exceedingly happy to make her acquaintance and had a line to a very nice selection of ladies' winter hats if she was of a mind. He was interrupted when Mad-Eye Moody stumped forward from a dark corner. She froze for a split second but quickly recovered as he gruffly welcomed her with a warning about the dangers of long hair like hers. She believed Moody noticed her lapse because both his eyes were trained upon her, unmoving, but she did not think anyone else had. Bill who had come to stand by her shoulder at some point made some mild observation and she was certain that if he had not noticed then no one else had. Still, his solid, familiar presence was a reassurance amongst all these strangers. Fleur let him talk, speaking little herself and observing carefully until she was satisfied that there were things different about this Moody, whether real or imagined.

And then there was Emmeline Vance who was reserved but pleasant, speaking little but always something of value. Hestia Jones who was cheerful and friendly. And... Nymphadora Tonks who had a familiar look of poorly hidden dismay on her face. Fleur hoped she would not be tiresome. She seemed amiable enough otherwise, but one never could tell.

The arrival of Albus Dumbledore put all those concerns aside, however.

“Good evening! Ah, Miss Delacour, a delight to see you again. I trust Bill has taken good care of you?” He twinkled a little at Bill and shook her hand warmly. “You have been introduced to everyone, I hope? Good, good. Well then everyone, shall we begin?”

 

*** SEVEN ***

 

Fleur was proud to be a proper member of the Order of the Phoenix and she was prepared to do everything in her power to support its mission, but she had to admit that she found the meetings to be a very mixed bag.

“If you had told me how they would be, I would not have wanted so much to come!” She said to Bill, making him laugh.

She accepted that Grimmauld Place was both practical and expedient however unpleasant the house was in and of itself. Why the Weasleys were living at the miserable place was soon explained by Black's volatility; it was very clear to her why Grimmauld Place always had someone in permanent residence.

The trouble was that while the meetings rarely had every member of the Order present, the more people there were the less productive they became. It rather proved the adage that organising Wizards was like corralling kneazles. She realised quickly that most of the tasks and responsibilities Bill took on came about in the moments before, after, or even between meetings. Understanding this and seeing him interact with his parents, it was obvious why he chose to stay at that dismal nexus of the Order rather than his bare but inoffensive Muggle flat.

Since she was one of the youngest members, certainly the youngest of the ones most often present, there was also a strong, unspoken expectation by a number of the others that she listen quietly and do as she was told. Being neither stupid, ignorant, nor retiring, she chose to disregard that expectation and the looks that speaking out brought her. She found an unexpected ally in Mad-Eye who seemed to like her blunt tongue and she came to appreciate and even enjoy his brusque worst-case-scenario pragmatism.

Meanwhile, Tonks had decided to stay as far away from her as possible. Fleur's one attempt at advice regarding her hair and clothes perhaps had been undiplomatic, especially as Lupin had walked into the room in the middle. Still, Tonks was polite enough when they could not avoid each other.

Aside from the inevitable irritations, it _was_ reassuring to truly feel part of something larger than herself. Even when working with Bill before she had felt isolated and insulated from the larger movement against You Know Who. This was truer than she had even imagined; the meetings also revealed just how many of his research requests had held double utility.

“And you did not think to just ask me directly?” She looked at him exasperated.

“Er, no?” He looked a little sheepish as he explained. “I had to think up connections anyway in case I didn't get you. And you needed to be able to file completed work hour logs.” And she had to give him that however aggravating it was. She still would have liked to have known.

Fleur had more autonomy in what she did for the Order now that she had access to the same information, and she and Bill worked together less often. One afternoon in late October she was examining a supply of Wizarding multi-tools at Order headquarters with Mundungus Fletcher. Several of the things needed to be discarded because the pop-up kettles did not work. She winnowed from an avalanche of talk about how it was _to be expected when they came at such a good price_ and how he had _a line on some fine cauldrons_ that there was a new house that could use some work.

The house was on a lonely headland overlooking the sea and Fleur stood there on the edge of the cliff, the wind whipping her hair around her and tugging at her cloak as she looked out at the grey sky and thrashing waves. She breathed deep the salty air.

“Here now, don't be standing so close to the edge, the wind'll have you right off!” Fletcher said anxiously from his vantage point well back.

She turned to him and laughed what felt like the first real laugh she had had in ages, pure joy bubbling up from deep within her to be carried off into the clouds like the crying of the gulls. Even the chilly wind could not dim the sense of well being she found here between sea and sky.

“It's beautiful. Show me the house!”

The house was the grey tone of worn away whitewash and small, with many windows that overlooked the sea. There were shells carefully pressed into the walls in swirls and patterns. She trailed her fingers over them as Fletcher fumbled with the keys. Someone had once loved this house, this place.

The house was full of light even with the sky so grey and it was so bare their footsteps echoed flatly back at them. It smelled of dust and brine, faded magic and the passage of time.

“Good find in this one; owners long gone and no one left to want it, not even ghosts. Roof needs a bit o' work and it's drafty and most of the windows leak. The pump's broken, the pipes're cracked, and the place's emptier'an a drum but otherwise it's all right.” he said, pointing things out as they walked through the rooms.

“And the garden,” she said, looking out the kitchen window at where the kitchen garden must once have been. She could still hear the breathing of the sea.

She returned that Saturday having distributed the Wizarding multi-tools and after collecting necessary supplies. The sky was clear, a vivid autumnal blue, and the sheltered lea of the house was warm with the sun.

Bill found her there a few hours later, singing softly to herself as she dug in the sandy dirt, smoothing the amended soil around the roots of a sturdy hellebore.

She looked up as he set down a bag and shifted his broom. “Oh good, you may do the roof. Some slate is missing and there are weak spots that will leak.”

His smile grew to a lopsided grin. “Glad to know I'm good for something. … You have a bit of dirt, right there,” and he pointed to her cheek. She sat on her heels and scrubbed at the smudge with the back of her glove as he went to set the bag in the house.

Later, he told her that Fletcher had sent him. They were sitting on sun warmed stones, drinking hot tea from Bill's flask and eating bread and butter and slivers of dried sausage.

“He was worried you'd be blown away by the wind or something. He wasn't very clear.”

She scoffed and offered him the grapes. “Foolishness. Do I look like the wind would blow me away?”

“Not at all,” he said with great seriousness as he accepted some grapes, but she saw the hint of a smile.

The house took only a few days to set to rights, much of the last taken up with bringing in furnishings. Fleur took a little extra care in hanging the curtains and folding the sheets and blankets in the linen closet. She said a final spell over the garden knowing that she would not have the chance to see the hellebore's winter blooms. She felt Bill's eyes on her and she looked her question at him.

“You'll miss this place.”

She shrugged. “It is beautiful, and it reminds me of home a little even if it is not very like it. It is not so cold here, too.” She looked around and smiled. “But it is ready, yes? We should go before I learn of all the ways it is less than wonderful. And if we're lucky, perhaps we will have more work that is as pleasant.”

A week of putting together emergency potions kits at Grimmauld place was not precisely enjoyable but Fleur would have traded for months of the same if it could have prevented the need for the shared task that followed. Order members were paired together to investigate mysterious flooding about the country. The autumn wind was cold and the trees were stark and bare, the scent of wood fires disconcertingly homely against the rushing sound of rising water. If she had been less tense she would have laughed when Bill, who had had the forethought to wear his wellies, apparated them into an alley he knew and straight into a deep puddle that instantly inundated his boots.

It was miserable, and cold, and the area to search immense as the water continued to spill forth confusing the signs. They transfigured a small dinghy and continued their search.

“Oi!” someone cried from a first storey window. “Oi, room for three more?”

Fleur and Bill looked at each other, and so it was that their search mission became a search and rescue.

They were wet to the skin and bone tired when everyone finally met back at headquarters to discuss their findings. A definite concentration of dark magic with suspicious markers strongly suggested Death Eater involvement, but why remained a mystery. They would not solve that mystery that night.

“I smell of river water.” Fleur said as the room emptied, too tired to really put the level of disdain she wanted into her words.

Bill huffed a quiet laugh. “Why should you be different?”

She made a face at him. “Because I cannot return to Mrs Plimpton who will be waiting to gossip about what I was doing when I am stinking of the river.”

He groaned as he stood up and went and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, since all the baths here are already taken, we'll go to the flat and you can wash up there.”

Bill's mundane little flat had never looked so welcome. She washed the grime away, sighing as the hot water soaked away the chill and she was properly warm for the first time since they had arrived at the river. Refreshed, she aimed a charm at her clothes and then did it again when the first was not enough. Warm, clean, and dry she finally felt human again.

She exited the bath to find Bill stirring a pot of something savoury on the stove. He had changed into clean clothes but neglected to put on socks. She found that curiously intimate and sat a little diffidently at the table.

“Can you believe it's not even ten? I have stew here from Mum, if you'd like some. I don't think that roll you ate earlier really counts as dinner.”

“Nor the apple you had. Please, I would like that, yes.”

They ate with gusto, Molly Weasley's cooking making them realise just how much of their exhaustion had been hunger. The conversation drifted from the day's events to speculation regarding the Order's next steps and then to whence their conversations always meandered, everything and nothing. Fleur rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully and fell silent.

“I'll make some coffee, yeah? Can't have you fall asleep apparating home.” Bill's voice was amused and Fleur was tempted to stick her tongue out at him.

“I am not that sleepy, but if you have coffee, _good_ coffee, then I will not say 'no'.” She stood and stretched a little as he cleared the table and began pulling things from cupboards. She sat on the sofa, leaning into the cushions as his wand whirled the beans into a fine grind. Their rich scent perfumed the air and she breathed it deep, sighing.

“I do not think I have had truly good coffee since I have been here,” she said dreamily. The lamplight highlighted his shoulders and the strong line of his back as he moved quietly, so vivid she could still see him with her eyes closed.

And so she fell asleep.

Some faint, unexpected noise woke Fleur from a pleasant dream and she made a small dissatisfied sound, burrowing more deeply into her pillow. Something smelled good and teased at the edge of her consciousness while a mild discomfort grew. There was a not-quite-rightness, and slowly, regretfully she awoke.

The light was coming in from the wrong direction and she realized groggily that she had her nose pressed to the pillow as if it was a bouquet of finest roses. She pushed herself up and looked around confused. She was tucked in Bill's bed, rumpled and in all her clothes except her shoes. A look around revealed those on the floor by the nightstand. The clock read 8:11 and the light told her it was the morning.

She wrinkled her nose at her clothes and sighed. She never did like to sleep in her clothes. It struck her as a mystery how they could look worse after a night in a bed than after having been ducked repeatedly in the river. Trusting the door would stay closed, she quickly slipped out of her jumper, shirt and trousers and transfigured them into a soft cashmere twinset and a long wool skirt. She transfigured her socks to knee high tights and then brushed out her hair with a simple spell. Nibbling on her lower lip she debated a charm for her teeth.

There was that small noise again, a curious one that she could not quite place. Slipping on her shoes, she glided silently to the door and opened it carefully. Peeping out, she could only see the broom rack so she slipped through the door and crept forward a little.

Bill was there working on something, staring abstractedly out the window. Fleur would have puzzled out what, but her mind refused to consider anything but the way his vest moulded to his body and how his tracky bottoms clung low on his hips. He was barefoot again, or still. She shook her head; something was wrong with her this morning. She must have made a sound for Bill turned to see her and smiled.

“You're awake,” he turned to set down what he was holding next to another and she realised the noise she had heard was that of a moderate dumbbell being placed on the floor. He tapped the pair with his wand and they reverted to his disgraced wellies. He sent them zooming back to their place against the wall with a flick.

“Did you sleep all right? I tried to wake you but you weren't having it.”

“I... yes, I slept very well, thank you.” She wished he would say something aggravating so she could stop looking at his chest. As if he could read her mind, although she devoutly hoped that he could not read her mind, he retrieved a red jumper and pulled it over his head. She was ridiculously grateful that it clashed abominably with his hair. She was free then to notice the blanket on the sofa, and her eyes flew to Bill who was a good deal longer than the sofa was wide. “I am sorry to have taken your bed; that could not have been comfortable.”

He shrugged. “I've managed much worse without anything near as good a reason. Would you like some breakfast? I owe you that cup of coffee, at least. Oh, and here...” He took a fork from a drawer and transfigured it into a toothbrush. “I'm sure you'll want this.”

She nodded gratefully and took herself off to wash her face. She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment wondering if her internal confusion showed, but she could not tell. Back in the main room she folded the blanket and sat on the edge of the sofa, at a loss.

“Bread, jam, cornflakes? I can make eggs if you want them. Do you take milk?”

“Please. And whatever you are having.”

For some reason that made him grin. “Start with this,” he said and he handed her a cup. Taking a sip from his own, he set about making breakfast.

The coffee was... Fleur did not have words for how good the coffee was. She sipped and sighed and sipped again.

“Where do you get your coffee?”

“There's a little shop in Marble Arch. And breakfast is ready. More?”

“Yes!” He laughed. Fleur moved to the table and sat at the place setting he indicated, pouring herself another cup and adding milk from the jug. She suddenly understood why he had been amused. Bill placed on each plate two thick slices of bread, buttered and browned in the pan to a golden hue on both sides. Then scrambled eggs, he filled his own plate first this time and paused with the wooden spoon hovering over hers.

She looked at the mountain he had served himself and said firmly, “Half.” He grinned again and complied.

“I usually have cornflakes, too.” He said, and she gave him a skeptical look. “On my honour!”

“That cannot be normal.” She sniffed, privately thinking that whatever he was eating did very well by him.

He laughed and said, “Just proves you don't have brothers.”

The eggs were delicious, velvety and buttery, the toast crispy crunchy but tender in the middle, the coffee gave her a deep glow of internal satisfaction and the conversation had once again become effortless.

Fleur was roundly denouncing the morning bun as an alimentary travesty compared to the superiority of the simple brioche when she decided his eyes were really an unfairly vivid blue. He agreed solemnly with her and she had a brief moment of confusion before she recalled they were discussing bread. A familiar fugitive smile crinkled the laugh lines around his blue, blue eyes, and she lost the train of her argument again. Because his nose was really rather ideal, too, and that led her to his mouth, and his lips that smiled so easily and looked so soft. She liked his chin, and the strong line of his jaw, and the sturdy column of his neck and the way his shoulders filled that absurd red jumper. His strong, capable hand cradled a coffee cup as he said something silly about crumpets. It was so very much a shame he was a prat. After all, he had- and there she had to pause.

For what, after all, _had_ he done? Her mind spun around that word 'prat'. July seemed so far away; the hurt and the anger were so very distant compared to the present warmth of his friendship even through all her protests that she 'did not like him'.

Bill was mid-sentence when she slid onto his lap and kissed him soundly, catching the startled half articulated beginning of her name on his lips.

She smiled at him and he gave her a little half smile in return, somewhat dazed around the edges.

“I thought you didn't like me.”

“I do not like you one bit,” she assured him, leaning in again and nuzzling at his mouth. He smelled so good.

“Oh..., well, all right then...?”

“I like you very much more than one bit,” Fleur sighed before silencing him again with the soft, hungry press of their lips, warm with his arms around her and lost in the taste of coffee on his tongue.

She learned the taste of Bill's kisses and the feel of his fingers sliding into her hair and tender on her back. And she discovered that his words were sweeter murmured against her smile, and that his laughter was irresistible when she could feel it before she could hear it. They stole away that afternoon to walk together about Muggle London, pretending for a few hours that war was not coming. Instead, they learned how to pace their steps with their arms around each other and marvelled at how much more bearable November's dank chill became whilst holding hands or sitting on a park bench warming each other's lips.

Bill's tawny owl interrupted their idyll with a note from headquarters.

“It's nothing serious. Just Mum asking if I'll be there for dinner.” His smiled ruefully as he launched Fitz back into the air with a reply. “The hazards of living with one's parents.”

“And here I am, monopolizing you.” She twined her arms around his neck and looked at him seriously.

“Worth it,” he assured her, his arms tightening around her.

“So, what would you be doing today if not for me?” She asked, her head on his shoulder, perfectly content.

“Hmmm....” he pondered and they began walking again. “Of a Sunday? Owl post, first,” and he gestured after the departed Fitz. “And then maybe a run around the park.” She gasped and laughed as he tugged them into a run down the path, dashing around startled Muggles and their dogs and prams before pulling up breathless underneath an enormous oak tree.

Fleur leaned back against the tree, eyes bright as she caught her breath. “And then?”

“And then someplace warm for tea.” He stepped in close, brushing his thumb tenderly over her chilled cheek. They kissed long and slow and sweet, until she was breathless again and warm down to her toes. He looked at her softly, “So you see, _bahiyya_ , I haven't missed anything at all.” His eyes were so blue.

“What is that? ' _Bahiyya_ '?”

“Beautiful,” he said. “It means 'beautiful'.”

They had dinner in a quiet place with unremarkable food that neither of them really noticed anyway and then he saw her back to her lodgings. He walked with her from the alley and up the few steps to the door where he gave her a warm, lingering hug and then walked into the night to return to Grimmauld Place.

Fleur slipped into the house. Mrs Plimpton's I-told-you-so grin barely penetrated her awareness as she drifted thoughtfully off to her bedroom.

Monday back at work was uneventful and she believed they behaved with admirable discretion. She used the simple expedient of saying nothing at all to Bill lest her voice give her away. If there was extra warmth in his eyes when he gave her work she doubted anyone was observant enough to notice. And that evening they discovered how sitting within kissing distance made even the most tedious Order task that much more bearable.

Tuesday's meeting was sobering, but she could not help the flutter of joy she felt each time Bill's hand clasped hers, oblivious to the looks that garnered. It was not until Albus Dumbledore stopped her as everyone was departing that she considered how it must have looked.

“It seems you have discovered a marvelous thing.” He looked thoughtfully at Bill who was speaking earnestly to Mad-Eye out of earshot. “ _Éros_ and _ágape_ together, freely given and requited,” he continued, twinkling kindly at her as she smiled and blushed. “But it's new. Of course, of course. Enjoy it, my dear.”

She hurried to reassure him, “We will not be... be derelict, sir. We know what is important.”

He patted her hand. “No, do not be derelict in your love, be it for that good young man or for your family in France or for your friends near and far. It is quite the most important thing you may ever do.” He patted her hand again in farewell and called to Fletcher who was preceding him up the stairs. “Ah, Mundungus did you say you could secure a supply of sticky...”

And so, Wednesday morning she was once again in Gringotts' drafty research room, warm with the memory of Bill's goodnight kiss as she collated data. It was Bill's name being spoken nearby that drew her attention.

Carruthers was saying to Petersham, “Be nice to Weasley today, all right? Take his reports or something, you know how that one doesn't like him.” He caught Fleur looking at them and he winked at her. She _hmph_ -ed and went back to work, still listening.

“And why should I do that? Nagrod's got me doing three week's work in one.” This was an exaggeration, but not by much.

“Winthrop's idea,” he said casually. “It's his birthday, right? And she wants to soften him up for something.”

“Bollocks to Winthrop's ideas,” Petersham said crossly, before sighing. “All right, but only today!”

Fleur blinked at the page, and then shook her head. He must be mistaken.

Later that morning Bill came to her with a sheaf of notes. Petersham swooped in and insinuated herself in front of Fleur's desk before he could reach her.

“I'll do that!”

“Aren't you working on the....”

“Taking a break! And this is much more important. A little bird told me it's your birthday!”

“Er, right.” Fleur was staring at him. He looked uncomfortable, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, it is, but it's quite all right-”

“Well, then, reason enough for you to have a good day with someone _pleasant_. I'll have this done in a trice!”

There was nothing he could do but walk away, and she sat, staring blindly at the columns of numbers in front of her, feeling as if she had just crashed to earth.

“Fleur.... Fleur!” She blinked and focused on Amabel looking at her puzzled. “You're miles away. It's lunch! I want to try one of the new soup specials at The Dish and Spoon. Come with me?”

“If I could speak to you, Delacour?” Bill was holding one of her previous reports in his hand. She took a deep breath and smiled at Amabel.

“I think I must see to this first.”

There in his office again with a bubble over the door, but the window closed this time and Fitz dozing on his perch.

“Fleur-”

  “You thought I was not interested, perhaps?” She interrupted. “Oh, I know, you did not have time to tell me, that is what you are going to say, is it not?”

“No! At least-”  

“Well? I'm waiting.” She crossed her arms.

“I was-”

“Oh, I see, you were going to tell me.” She threw her arms in the air and paced. “You were going to tell me when, tomorrow? Or next week perhaps?”

He walked up to her and grabbed her arms, making her look at him. “ _Fleur!_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“It would help if I could _finish a sentence_.” He said, with painstaking calm. She shook free and crossed her arms again. When he continued to wait, she gestured impatiently for him to continue.

“Look, I didn't forget. It just didn't seem that important. No wait, let me finish. It didn't seem that important and I was going to tell you tonight, all right? I don't like a-” A small owl bearing a large parcel scratched at the window frame but Bill ignored it. “I don't really-” It proceeded to peck at the glass. Fitz looked at it with interest.

“Well, will you not let the poor bird in? Or do we all have to expire from waiting?”

He opened the casement and the owl flew in and shrieked at Fitz before dropping its parcel on the desk and flying back out the window. A card slipped out from the string tying the parcel and opened up showering them with confetti before breaking into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday” in Mr and Mrs Weasley's voices. After the last _Tooooo Yooooouuuuu!_ Mrs Weasleys' voice continued fondly _I know you're sure to have plans, dear, but you always do like chocolate. And I was careful to send this at lunch so you shouldn't get in trouble. Love, Mum and Dad_. At those words the parcel folded itself open to reveal a tall chocolate cake, the inscription ringed in lit candles.

A knock on the door frame startled them from this performance and Bill quickly dropped the bubble. Winthrop was standing there looking at them curiously with a bright smile plastered on her face.

“We seem to have come at just the right time! The team wanted to celebrate your birthday, too. Come have some cake!” She pulled forward Carruthers who was holding a large sheet cake with candles. Looking out the door there indeed was the entire curse binding team present, and someone was pouring out cups of beer.

Bill ran his hand through his hair and looked at Fleur. She shrugged and he went out and thanked them. She sat on a chair and looked at the card Mrs Weasley had sent. It was a folded piece of parchment with a silly Muggle cartoon about the pyramids pasted to the front with a sticking charm.

He returned a little more than fifteen minutes later and offered her a piece of cake. She shook her head and just looked at him. He set the plate down on his desk along with the camel plushie someone had given him and sighed as he sat next to her.

“Look, I don't like a fuss about my birthday, yeah?” She _hmph_ -ed. “I mean it. I was going to tell you after work. I didn't think all this would happen first. And it's great of them, yeah? I appreciate it, I really do. I just... wish they hadn't.” He looked chagrined.

“Why don't you like it?” She asked, looking down at the card still in her hands.

“Just don't. Save it for the kids, yeah? I don't need people to spend money on presents or throw a party. Although I do like the cake part,” he said, smiling at the cake his mother had sent. “She sends one every year; it just usually arrives after work.”

She handed him the card, and he looked at it and laughed quietly. “That's Dad's hand in it. He likes Muggle things,” he explained. “Look, all I wanted to do was spend time with you. Maybe have a bit of cake after work, just the two of us. That's the best birthday I could ask for and what I would have asked for if I'd had the chance.”

She considered this. “It is your birthday,” and she slid onto his lap and draped her arms around his shoulders. “I believe this means I must kiss you.” And she suited action to words, tasting the lingering icing sugar on his upper lip and finding his kiss itself sweeter still. “You may have your quiet birthday,” she told him.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly, that hint of a smile around his eyes and hovering on the edge of his mouth.

It was imperative that she kiss it, so she did. And then it was imperative that she explore his jaw with her lips and so she did that as well. When he was properly paying attention she murmured in his ear, “But this does not mean I do not expect a present on _my_ birthday.” He squeezed her hard and laughed, assuring her that she was safe.

A small cough caused them to look up at the door. Amabel was standing there looking aghast and there were several other surprised faces within view of the door as well. Fleur realised that not only was the door open but that Bill had not put up a bubble. He shrugged ruefully.

“Fleur?” Amabel squeaked.

Fleur looked at Bill, his hand warm on the small of her back, and then beamed at Amabel. “He improves with knowing him.”

 

*** EIGHT ***

 

December arrived with an extra bite of frost in the air. Diagon Alley was festive with more and more displays of fairy lights and snow awnings. The perfect fat flakes piled into picturesque drifts lit with twinkling lights before more and more shopfronts each day, at distinct odds with the wet and grey weather and the very un-joyous work they quietly did for the Order.

The news that Fleur had thawed to Bill travelled through the Human Resources department like wildfire and it was marvelled at and exclaimed over until it was replaced by the much more juicy and shocking revelation that Carruthers was having an affair with Winthrop.

“His wife levitated all his belongings out the window and kicked him out!” Amabel whispered to her as they saw Carruthers go by, a handdog look on his face.

“No more than he deserves,” Fleur sniffed unsympathetically.

Amabel nodded, “And Charis is upset, too.” Her voice dropped some more. “Annis says he talked up how much he wanted to be with her. But now his wife kicks him out and he can't talk about anything but how she won't forgive him. So Charis won't have anything to do with him, either.” They shook their heads over this, wondering how anyone could be so awful.

Amabel had accepted Fleur's story of slow burgeoning office romance as the truth, and it was not so very far from it that Fleur felt guilty for the prevarication. Her friend was disinclined to be critical anyway, her mind taken up as it was with affairs of her own heart.

Amabel's wedding was wonderful, and if Amabel's mother was a little short with Fleur for being too pretty, it mattered not at all. Amabel was radiantly happy and Stuart had eyes for no one but his bride. Fleur eyes were inexorably drawn again and again to Bill, and they danced together for the first time beneath a pink and gold chandelier hung with singing fairies.

Fleur had said she would go home for Christmas as she had every year except the last and Bill encouraged her to keep those plans.

“You haven't seen them in ages, and you can't disappoint your sister. And once my brothers arrive from school there won't be a moment's peace to be had; the Twins love their jokes.” With the promise to write to each other often and to exchange presents on her return, Fleur portkeyed to the place she still called 'home'.

The contrast was sharp and lovely. It was so much warmer at home and the light was clearer somehow. She and Gabrielle played with the kneazle kittens and they explored the Christmas market together before tumbling home to drink butterbeer and sweet mulled wine and bake cookies. The cousins were all home and there was visiting and singing and much eating and laughing and telling secrets in corners. Presents were exchanged with great success and it was as perfect a holiday as one could wish. Professor Dumbledore's words resonated strongly in Fleur's thoughts deep in the heart of her family. She was glad to have come, grateful to be so loved, but she felt far away nonetheless. She was warm, cherished, and far, far away.

The fading _mistral_ tugged at her hair and the parchment in her hand, but she could still detect woodsmoke and a hint of Maman's good roast duck over the salty tang of the sea. Fleur hugged her arms closer and wondered why she missed so much a pokey little flat she had only stayed at once. She smiled then and imagined Bill's arms warm around her, the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, and his voice rumbling low and only for her. Not such a mystery after all. Five weeks was not so very long but it was enough, it seemed, for her to crave such things all through the two of those weeks they were spending apart.

She heard the soft sound of footsteps and a light blanket fell around her shoulders as her father dropped to the sandy tussock beside her. She tucked Bill's latest letter away in her pocket.

“It's very different, this great English city to our little home. But you like it, _ma petite_?”

“Yes, papa. It's cold and dirty and damp, but there are some things...” and she thought of Bill again and smiled into the fringe of the blanket. “Some things that... compensate.”

“Hmmm,” was all he said and they sat in companionable silence as the sun set over the water. As a tiny child she had wondered if the sun would hiss and boil the sea and her father had made up elaborate stories about the origins of bouillabaisse, the steam rising to the heavens carrying the scent of saffron and fine French fish.

“Good fish stock, this,” he murmured and she giggled into the fringe. “You're still sure, yes? You wouldn't return to this great dirty, cold, and most regrettably damp city tomorrow if you weren't sure.”

“I am sure. It's safe here, and warm, and you're all here but...” and she paused, trying to find the right words. “If I stay here, who is to say it will stay safe? That evil man, he, they are not so very far away, no? Like how the sea feels endless but we _know_ that is an illusion. Better to fight him when he's weakest than wait until he's strong and then say 'if only'. And these are my friends, people I love. What am I if I let them face this alone, I who know what it is we fight?”

He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed, dropping a kiss on her hair.

“You're like your grandmother, all fire and adamantine. You must do as you feel you ought, and you know we'll do what we're able. We're here if you have need of us.”

She nodded. “Yes, papa, I know.”

“Hmm...,” there was a brief, comfortable silence when he began again seemingly entirely unrelated. “This young man of yours, are you sure of him as well?”

Fleur straightened and looked at her father, the golden light from the house spilling down the hillside and shining off the top of his head. “Bill, his name is Bill,” she reminded him.

“Yes, this 'Bill', but what sort of man is he? Your sister is full of this-es and thats-es from your letters but nothing of moment. Is he worthy of my flower? You didn't like him so much at first.”

She blinked for a moment, nonplussed. No one had really asked her what she thought of Bill before, at least not with a serious desire to understand why he had become so indispensable to her comfort. And that gave her pause because she had only realised in that moment that he truly was indispensable to her comfort. That she wished to be with him and experience everything with him because he made it better. He was kind and thoughtful and serious, so very intelligent and he worked so hard. But that made him sound dull and solemn when he was lively and full of joy and enthusiasm, his smile, his laugh lighting up everything and making her wish to laugh with him. And he had guided her and watched over her from the start even before she liked him at all, even when he thought she hated him, because he felt it was right. His warm, strong presence was an anchor, no not an anchor, a _lighthouse_ , and she wished she could be that for him, too. She finally faltered to a stop, wondering what her father was thinking.

He sat silent for a moment, staring up at the stars and then asked. “Does he love you?”

 _Yes_ was on the tip of her tongue; she was certain of it though he had not yet said it. “I believe so.”

“Hm, and you love him.”

“Yes,” that was easy.

“You are _very_ like your grandmother,” he sighed fondly. “No, no, not your mother's mother, _my_ mother. She was about your age when she fell in love with a young man while fighting against Grindelwald and they had a great romance.”

She straightened up and looked at him. “I didn't know this about _Grandpère_. Why has no one said?!”

“Ah,” he was silent for a moment, and then continued quietly. “That wasn't my father. That was your _Oncle_ Dominic's father.”

Many little things suddenly clicked into place for Fleur about her oldest uncle. She shivered a little, chilled, and did not know what to say.

Her father continued. “I think, were your grandmother here to advise you, she would say that she had many regrets and sorrows, but loving was not one of them.”

They sat silently for a long while until Gabrielle came running down the hill to call them in again.

Later that evening while her father and Gabrielle washed up from dinner, her mother came to sit with her as she packed her valise.

“A good appetite,” her mother said, looking at the enormous basket of local delicacies Fleur had set aside to go in last.

“He doesn't like presents, but food is an exception.” She looked about for the cushion Gabrielle had made her to brighten up her lodgings.

“Hm,” It amused Fleur sometimes how similar her parents were in approaching delicate conversations. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“ _Maman!_ ” Fleur gasped.

“Oh, do not be so prudish, you've had three weeks opportunity if your letters are to be believed.”

Fleur blushed hotly, “No.”

“Ah, that explains the shock and outrage. If you had you would not be so upset.”

Fleur grabbed up the next thing to come to hand, a small pile of folded clothing, and stuffed it into the valise willy nilly, mortified. Her mother watched her for a moment and then took the valise away from her.

“You are wrinkling everything, let me.”

Fleur sat on the edge of her bed, discontented, watching her mother completely redo her packing.

“It's not like that,” Fleur said, finally.

Her mother looked at her startled. “It's not? How very odd. Don't you desire him?”

“Of course I do! He is- he is, oh, my _beau idéal  ._

"Well then?"

Fleur opened her mouth and then shut it again because she did not know why they had not yet taken their pleasure in each other. She knew her body yearned for his, and she had seen the signs that he wanted her as well, but somehow they always parted at his doorstep or hers.

“... I don't know. The time, it just never gets that far. We kiss, we spend hours kissing and holding hands and....” Her mother was looking at her a little pityingly.

“You are not fourteen, and there is always enough time. Are you sure _he_ desires _you_?”

“Oh yes,” Fleur said firmly, of that there was absolutely no doubt.

Her mother put the half packed valise aside and sat next to her. “It's serious, then. You want him.”

Fleur understood what her mother meant. “I do, yes.”

Her mother took one of her hands. “My Fleur, if you are sure then you must let him know. Whether it lasts for three months or three years or all eternity, if this is the honest desire of your heart you must let him know. It isn't fair if you don't.”

“But he must know! I-”

  “No. It doesn't work that way. You must make _sure_ he knows how you feel, and you must make sure _you_ know how _he_ feels. It is very, very important. Does he love you?” Again, Fleur wanted to say _yes_ but could not.   

“I think so, he hasn't said it.”

“And have you told him that you love him?”

The look on her mother's face made her feel ashamed. She looked down at their hands and said, “No.”

Her mother wrapped her arm around her and sighed. “Three weeks is an age in a love affair, my daughter, but it's no time at all in true love. You don't need to rush ahead, but you need to be honest to him and to yourself. This would be true even if you were only a Witch, but it is even more important because you are part Veela. Do not _think_ he loves you; _know_ he loves you. I don't wish to see you loving someone who loves only your allure in return.”

“That would make the jealous old cats happy, wouldn't it? They would think it just deserts.” Fleur sighed. “All right, _Maman_ , I will be sure. But truly, he's not like that.”

“Hm,” her mother said. “It's early yet and you're mostly packed. We shall have some cognac and you'll tell me all about what he _is_ like, yes? All the things you couldn't tell your sister. Or your father! Oh, and this,” she stood and pulled a small, soft parcel down from the top of the closet where Fleur had overlooked it, and tucked it into the valise. “Wear this when you see your young man again. It will look well on you.”

When Fleur opened the parcel the next afternoon she had to laugh and shake her head. Her mother had given her a simple wine coloured dress with long sleeves and a wide, shallow scoop neck that dipped lower in back to a V accented with a large bow. Nothing more clearly said she was a present to be opened, but the fabric was soft against her skin and she did look well in it. The dress skimmed her contours and then fell in a smooth, graceful flare from her hips to just above her knees, swaying gently with every step and lifting to mid-thigh if she spun. She wanted to dance in this dress.

“That will make him sit up and take notice, it will!” Mrs Plimpton said. Fleur rather thought it would.

“It will be cold, this. It is not very thick.”

“Pish tosh! That's what winter cloaks are for, dearie! And once you're inside you'll be warm enough, I warrant. Now go find that man of yours and make him give you a proper welcome back. You're pretty as a picture and that's wasted on me and the mister.” Fleur laughed and nodded, borrowing an owl to let Bill know that she would be at the flat a little earlier than they had agreed. Taking up the basket, she apparated to his alley.

The flat was chilly and had even more of a neglected air than usual, with no sign of recent habitation but a dried up coffee cup resting in the sink. She nodded to herself. His whole family had been at Grimmauld Place for two weeks until the children went back to school that morning. There would have been no need for the flat if the Order was quiet. They chose to come to the flat for privacy, not out of any need for secrecy. But still it was cold and that would not do at all to show off her dress.

She kept her cloak on as she fiddled curiously with the Muggle heaters until the place began to warm. That done, she took a bright cloth out of the basket and spread it on the little table and lit the lamps. She then placed the basket in the center of the table. She had to admit it looked a little absurd; it was almost bigger around than the table. She looked around and nibbled her lower lip. It did not appeal to her to put it on the counter. The sofa would be even more odd. Enlarging the table would block part of the sofa. She sighed and left it as it was.

She had hung up her cloak and put away the clean mug and was just then warming some spiced wine on the stove when Bill arrived.

“Fleur....” He said standing in the doorway looking stunned. His reaction to the dress was everything she could have wanted.

“Bill!” She threw herself into his arms and felt him gather her close. He held her like that for a long moment and his chilled hand on her bare back made her shiver. She murmured “I missed you,” into his shoulder, and heard him sigh _Me, too._

“But come, you're cold. Have some spiced wine; I brought it from home.” And she pulled him in to the little flat and closed the door. He hung up his coat and scarf and slipped a little wrapped parcel onto the table behind the basket. He stepped forward and Fleur finally got a good look at him in the lamplight. He looked tired, and drawn like he had been overworked or not sleeping well.

“You've got very French again; you haven't dropped an 'h' in ages. Did you have a good visit?” He asked. “What's in the basket?”

“Yes, I did, and it is for you... Bill. Bill, what is wrong?”

“For me? That's a big basket.” He looked startled. “Nothing's wrong now; it's just been a hectic couple of weeks. Something happened with the old crowd while you were away; Dad was in St Mungo's for a while but he's all right now.”

She stared at him, a cold pit forming in her stomach. “You said, your letters never said....”

“It was all for the Order and there was nothing you could do. I didn't want to worry you.” He was looking at her concerned and she wanted to shake him.

“What happened?”

“You know that task Dad took on, before you left?” She nodded, and he looked grim. “He was attacked.”

“By Wizards?”

He shook his head. “The familiar.” She gasped and he nodded. “The great bloody snake we keep hearing about. It was... bad.”

She went to him and put her hand on his cheek; his arm slid around her waist. “But he is all right now, you say? Your father?”

He nodded. “Yeah, Harry knew, saw, somehow, and he got word to Dumbledore. They were able to get Dad to St Mungo's before he bled to death.” He grimaced. “They were finally able to stop the bleeding and heal him up. He got out the day before yesterday.”

“When did it happen?”

“The 18th.”

“The 18th!” She pulled away to look at him, shocked. “All this time you have had this and I have been thinking you were quiet at the house with your trouble making brothers and your mother's cooking!”

“But it's over, yeah?” He looked so tired and so confused she almost let it go. “Everything's all right, now.”

And like a blaze of light she realised what her mother meant and she sat down stunned, the pit in her stomach almost a physical ache. He did not understand what he had done because to him, he had done nothing. Because to him they were not serious.

“Fleur, _bahiyya_ , what's wrong? He's all right now, yeah?” She shook her head at him and he pulled the other chair next to her, putting his arm around her. “Everything's all right. There's a meeting soon and we'll catch you up then, but things are secure for now. It's all right, yeah?”  

“No.”

“Fleur?”

“No, it is not all right,” and she shook off his arm and stood, walking a few steps away and wrapping her arms around herself to stop the shaking.

He stood. “What's wrong?”

“You call me _bahiyya_ , 'beautiful',” she gave a choked little laugh with no humour in it. “I call you 'Bill' but I have a secret name for you, too, do you know what it is?” He shook his head, bewildered. “ _Mon amour,_ 'my love'.” He took a step towards her, but she stepped back and he stopped.

“It is the truth. And I hoped, thought perhaps, that I was yours too. But I am not.” He made a protesting noise, but she ignored it. “There are many bitter people in the world who would think this very funny.”

She bent her lips into a smile and shook her head, “But there. It is all right, you do not need to be afraid. I was mistaken. Is this not what all men fear? A woman saying 'I love you' when they do not love them back?”

“No, you're wrong. I do love you.” He stepped towards her again and caught her by the arms as she tried to slip past. He tried to get her to meet his eyes but she would not. “Fleur, tell me what I did wrong, please! Please, _I do love you!_ ”

“People are always thinking they love me, but they do not, not really.” He made a distressed sound and she felt his hands tighten briefly. She shook her head. “I do not usually mind. It is not you, it is me.” And she tried to laugh.

“Talk to me, please Fleur, talk to me. Stop saying these things and tell me what I did. I love you, I love you, _habibi_ , talk to me.”

She looked at him sadly, “You don't even know, Bill. Don't you see?” Oh, his eyes were so blue, no wonder she had fallen. She could not bear them and closed her eyes. She almost did not recognise his voice when he spoke again, strained and rough as it was.

“D'you remember that first house? You set to it like a general marshaling an army into order; I could barely keep up. You didn't care if it was dirty or hard or menial, you just did it. And the look on your face when I used that spell on the foundation....” He swallowed. “But I could see that you weren't doing it for the job only, to help the Order, you were doing it for something else. And you needed it.”

Even with her eyes closed she turned her face away.

“And I couldn't take that away from you, yeah? But I couldn't- even if you hated me I knew you needed more time. And then I wanted to protect you, because you were hurting and because it's dangerous. I _know_ how dangerous; I remember the First War and it's terrifying. You were right; I wasn't ready. But you, you're as brave as anyone I've ever met and Dumbledore,” Bill took a deep breath. “Dumbledore reminded me it wasn't fair. You have to pick your own path and I can't stop you and I can't decide for you.”

“Don't tell me you already loved me then,” she whispered. “I won't believe you.”

“I don't know when,” he said simply. “Every day it got stronger until I couldn't ignore it anymore. Until I knew what to call it.”

“... When?”

“Look at me? Please?” She opened her eyes. She had never seen him look so earnest nor so afraid. “It was the flood, when you wanted to help the Muggles. Merlin, Fleur, do you know how magnificent you are? Do you even know?”

Her lip trembled, “Of course I know.”

He put his arms around her and she let him, “I know it, too. I do love you; you're the world to me.”

“You didn't tell me.” she mumbled into his shoulder. His arms tightened around her. “You wrote to me almost every day but you didn't tell me. And that is a very lonely thing to realise. It was like your birthday, only more so. I do not want to be protected from your life. I want to be a part of it.”

“I'm sorry, _habibi_. I am so very sorry.”

She relaxed, suddenly exhausted. “I know that one, you know.”

“Good.”

“It is very inconvenient when both Mrs Plimpton and my mother are correct.” There was a startled pause and then Bill laughed and walked them to the sofa, pulling her onto his lap.

“And how is that?”

“They have both, at different times, told me to talk to you.” She rested her head on his shoulder and considered.

“I'm not sure if I should thank them or be afraid of their advice,” Bill confessed, his fingers softly rubbing the base of her neck.

“Mm, well the other thing was that we should have started sleeping together long ago.” His fingers stopped and she looked up into his startled face. She kissed the side of his mouth, and nodded. “They think all this waiting is foolishness. And I think it is a little, too. Why are we waiting?”

He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and Fleur sat up. “Think about it. I will get us some spiced wine.” And she slipped off his lap.

She returned and settled back onto his lap and the circle of his arm, offering him the cup but he declined. “Well?”

“Er, right. I don't think you're going to like this.”

“You are able, yes? I think you are, or at least I have, hm, _felt_ you are.... You are blushing!”

He squirmed a little under her delighted gaze and he coughed and finally muttered, “I didn't think you were that serious and I....”

“Yes? I have told you that I love you, the least you can do is explain why you do not find me desirable.”

He gave a curious sound between a groan and a laugh and finally confessed “I didn't want to sleep with you only to have to give you up one day when someone you liked better came along.” He eyed her cautiously.

She turned this over in her mind and set the cup somewhere safe. Then she hit his shoulder firmly. “You are a great stupid. Think of all the time we have wasted!”

He looked at her incredulously and then started to laugh and laugh. And suddenly, Fleur felt the joy bubbling up through her again, resonating with his laughter until she had to laugh too, breathlessly caught up in its release.

And because speaking of Mrs Plimpton and Fleur's mother on the heels of a draining emotional interlude was not very conducive to exploring their desire for each other, they chose to exchange their presents.

“First yours!” She pulled him over to the table. “I shall expect a kiss in thanks.”

Bill soon discovered that Fleur delighted in giving as much as she insisted on receiving, and that the basket contained wizard space. There were cakes, and candies, and pastries, and chocolates, and wine, and fruits, and breads and savories of all sorts, and an entire cured ham, amongst other things. He chose to take her request for a kiss to mean each thing which meant opening the basket took a very long time indeed. They shared alternately sweet, salty, and spicy kisses, sometimes juicy, sometimes licking oil off their fingers and each other's lips.

And then Bill collected his small present to her from beneath a stray loaf of bread and presented it sheepishly. Fleur draped the ribbon over Bill's head and tore open the paper like a child, making him grin. Inside was a fine cashmere scarf in rich grey. Her eyes flew to Bill who was tugging off the ribbon on his head. The expensive cloth was impossibly soft against her fingertips.

She lifted her hair off her neck, “Put it on me?”

He carefully wrapped it around her neck and snugged it up warmly, and then pulled her in for a kiss. Fleur dropped her hair and twined her arms around his neck.

“I will always think of your touch when I wear it,” she murmured under his ear, her lips against his skin. She felt his pulse speed up and she kissed his neck. “I love it, thank you.”

“This is a great incentive to giving you presents,” he laughed, shakily, and she grinned into his neck.

“Dance with me.”

She pulled him up, waved her wand like a baton for a bit of music and he spun her onto his arm. They danced there in the living room as the music spilled around them, careless of the homely furniture, the golden lamplight giving everything an unaccustomed lustre.

It was still early in the evening when Bill looked into her dreamy face and said quietly, “Stay.”

And Fleur nodded and took his hand as they walked to the bedroom.

It began with a kiss, standing next to the bed with its covers pulled back, the soft exploration of lips and tongue and breath that was so irresistible. Fleur sighed as Bill's mouth moved down her neck and his hands delicately removed the scarf he had given her and draped it onto the nightstand. Then his hands moved along her shoulders and down her back, sliding under her hair and into the edges of her dress. She pressed herself closer to his mouth as he explored along her collarbone, and she tugged at his shirt wanting to touch skin.

“Off,” she whined impatiently. He pulled back long enough to pull his shirt off over his head and throw it aside, and then he was back, mouth moving over her skin and his hands sliding the shoulders of her dress down her arms.

Fleur shivered as Bill peeled her slowly out of her dress like peeling a grape, lingering over her breasts with his hands hot on her naked waist. She pulled her arms free of her sleeves and clung to him, feeling the texture of his skin and the contours of his muscles, her breath catching as he pulled a nipple into his mouth and sucked. She whimpered and her knees went weak as he explored first one breast and then the other, nuzzling and licking her skin, his stubble prickling lightly. And then he was nuzzling and kissing down her stomach and sides, slipping his hands under the gathered cloth at her hips and under the waistband of her knickers. He slid his hands down the curve of her arse pushing the cloth down further as he kneaded and pulled her towards his mouth nuzzling her stomach. She whimpered louder and buried her hands in his hair as his hands moved down her thighs. Her dress and knickers clung for a moment longer and then fell in a puddle around her feet, and she was naked before him. He looked up at her with such tenderness and hunger and awe that she had never felt more beautiful.

She tugged at his shoulder, impatient to kiss him, to feel his naked skin press against hers, and their hands fumbled together at his belt as their tongues tangled. Fleur reached for him as he pushed his trousers and pants down his thighs, and Bill gasped as she wrapped her fingers around his cock and squeezed. She backed him against the bed until he had to sit down and she knelt straddling his hips as he kicked off the last of his clothes.

She pressed up against his chest, his hands warm on her arse, her back, her thighs as she gazed down into his eyes so dark with hunger she felt she could fall into them forever. Her hair moved and floated around them like a living thing and she shifted enough to rub her folds against his cock, drinking in every shift of his expression, every sound that fell from his lips as she gasped and whimpered and moaned until she could not bear it any longer, until she could feel the tension trembling in every line of him and she sank down taking him into her for the first time, a low cry trembling on her lips.

Fleur kissed Bill hard and felt him shift within her as they moved, felt her clit grind against him and felt his hands wandering, everything a zing and tingle of delight that surged through her gathering more and more until she felt like a sea of pleasure was moving through her. His mouth trailed down to her breasts and she shuddered and pressed forward for more pressure, more suction, for more and more until he had her pressed back over his arm, her hips working in jerky circles and her hands twisting in his hair. She pushed at his shoulders then, wanting even more, and she pushed until he was lying back and she was kneeling over him, rolling her hips as he bucked up into her, hands on her breasts and her name on his lips. She was desperate, desperate and she moved faster crying out to him, wanting him to meet her there, wanting him to take her there and he pulled her down against him, his mouth like velvet on her skin as he rolled over on top of her and catching her leg up against his side, slammed into her over and over again, until they were gasping, shuddering, crashing into one another by instinct, their cries mingled to one.

They slept tangled up in each others limbs, Fleur's hair draped over them like a blanket of gold.

It was early when a delicate unexpected touch awoke Fleur. She had half awakened several times in the night, slowly acclimating to sharing a bed, and she smiled sleepily at the reminder that she was not alone. Another gentle touch and a slight rocking of the bed drifted through her sleep haze, and she stretched out a hand to Bill beside her only to find empty sheets. And then she discovered the gentle touches had reached their goal and she moaned, both shocked and aroused as she realised that he had crept between her legs and was carefully, tenderly exploring her intimate places.

She was a groaning, pleading wreck almost as soon as she awoke fully, her hands sliding of their own volition into his hair. It was loose and fell about his face and flicked against her thighs in ruddy disorder, the tie long gone. She watched him in the dim winter light as long as she could, her mind stuttering as she matched what she was seeing to what she was feeling. Fleur was unprepared for this; all she knew was that some people did this and not that Bill's tongue could do _that_ , or that the prickle of his stubble would rush heat through her so. And then he gently sucked and she arched up, unprepared for the sensations that cascaded through her from that tiny touch. He explored her thoroughly, leisurely, learning what made her respond the loudest, what make her babble in French as she gasped, and what caused her to bite her lip and jerk his hair heedlessly.

But she could not let go. Her body flushed and tingling, she twisted in the sheets and could not dismiss the idea that he could not be enjoying this as much as she was. And even as she sobbed and begged, she did not know what she was begging for, just that it was for something more. Eventually, he slowed, and stopped, panting as he rested his cheek on her inner thigh, his hot breath rushing over her and making her twitch and moan.

“Bill,” she almost wept, “ _Bill_.” Her hands found their way to his shoulders and she tugged on him, pulling him on top of her, wanton and desperate.

He groaned, “God, _habibi_ ,” and he pressed into her in a long, slow stroke, kissing her as he settled against her, rolling his hips.

And Fleur cried out; her scent on his skin, her flavor on his lips, the knowledge of what he had done to her flooded through her and she came helplessly. Bill choked and gasped as she tightened around him and then he was moving, moving hard and fast, his self-control lost and his body seeking hers at its most primal.

She clung to him, insensible with pleasure, the receding surge of her orgasm being overtaken by another surge, stronger and harder and faster. And she was crying out again, her senses swamped with the feel of him, dimly aware of Bill's shout as he shuddered within her.

They lay as they had fallen and dozed a little. It was Fleur who awoke first this time. She watched Bill sleep, his features relaxed and without the animation of a smile or a frown, yet with all their marks. The laugh lines and faint tan lines that showed how often he laughed and smiled, the faint creases between his brows. She was glad to see the strain around his eyes was less, and the circles were fading away.

Fleur shifted slightly, just a little sore, enough to remind her how she got that way and to think it well worth it. She lightly ran her finger down Bill's nose, wishing he would wake up. She leaned in and gently pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. His lips parted a little, and she deepened the kiss. She squeaked as his arms suddenly wrapped around her and he rolled them over.

“I thought the prince wakes the princess with a kiss, not the other way around?”

“Prince, princess, what does it matter as long as there are kisses? Unless you would prefer I not kiss you?” She said loftily. He quickly denied any such preference and they exchanged many more before the morning was through.

They spent New Year's Eve together and slept again in the same bed, seeing out 1995 and in 1996 with very private fireworks.

Fleur knew that they could not shut the world out. They stole this time to talk and understand one another, to be honest to each other, and to learn their hearts and to learn their bodies. It was a starting place, a temporary stopgap in their hunger for more. And no matter how much or how often they laughed, the war's cold touch could not be excised. It was part of them, there in their deepest fears and their recent memory, in her talk of the TriWizard tournament and in his about his father and the still vivid long ago memories of his favorite uncles. And so when she saw the patronus messenger on New Year's Day, she felt that familiar sense of dread and resolve, but no surprise.

She met Bill's eyes, felt his hand warm in hers and she nodded. She was ready. They were both ready.


	2. DVD Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standalone extra scene; contains foodsmut.

_February, 1996_

 

Fleur placed the small pasteboard box on the table with some ceremony.

"It is Valentine's Day, and while I do not require any excessive display I do require that you share a _choux_ pastry with me for it is quite my favorite and it was some trouble to find a good one here."

Bill grinned at her.

" _Choux_? Isn't that the thing I'm not allowed to call you because the old auntie down the road calls you that and she's the last person you want to think about when we're...."

She made a _tsk!_ noise.

"That is _petit chou_ , 'little cabbage' and utterly nonsensical at the best of times. _This_ is a pastry made from _pâte à choux_. It's called that because in the oven when it gets hot it grows big with steam and looks a little like a round cabbage." She unveiled the six dainty cream puffs and two generous éclairs with a flourish.

"Ahhhh...." He nodded, that fugitive smile trembling at the corner of his mouth and around his eyes.

"Mmm, this one is chocolate cream," she said as she nibbled a cream puff and then offered him the other half. "And this one...," she paused to kiss the cream off his upper lip before presenting the next. "Mmm, this one is passion fruit." They nibbled and kissed their way through the cream puffs and he seemed content to continue in that way but after a final shared bite, Fleur sat back and summoned two plates.

"An éclair, it is special." And she served him his pastry and then took up her own, determined to enjoy it properly.

She delicately squeezed the plump pastry, testing the density of the cream inside and nodded, pleased. This one was lush and heavy. She licked away a few stray streaks of chocolate glaze that had strayed down the sides before licking and probing at the end where she thought the baker might have piped in the cream. She cleared the little divot and pursing her lips at the end of the éclair she gently sucked.

Bill gave a strangled little noise then, and she looked at him startled. His pastry sat untouched and his color was high and his eyes were dilated. Before she could ask if he was all right, he had scooped her out of her chair and carried her off to the bedroom, her pastry still in her hand.

He kissed her until her questions turned to moans and her éclair was melting chocolate all over her hand. “ _Biiiiilllll_....”

He grinned against her mouth, his hands busy at her waist, stripping her out of her clothes. “If you're going to eat it that way, I have to show you how I do it.”

She nodded and tugged at his belt with her free hand. “Immediately!”

A little awkwardly they stripped and he pressed her to lie back on the bed. She gasped as he took the melting pastry from her, and twinkling a little, laid it on her trembling stomach. And then he very, very carefully licked her hand clean.

She lay there vibrating with arousal at the feel of his lips and tongue as she watched him. Heat pooled between her legs and she shifted restlessly, and she whined a little as he gave no sign of moving on from her hand any time soon.

“Bill!” she twisted a little and the éclair threatened to roll off. He shifted until he was over her, pinning her wrists over her head and his body hovering just over the éclair, and he kissed her. She could taste the chocolate on his tongue and she arched up and wrapped her legs around him, seeking contact, uncaring of the pastry caught between them.

“We'll crush it,” he murmured huskily as he held himself tensely over her, his arms trembling as she pulled at him,

“Yes, yes!” and she sobbed as he entered her, crushed to the bed, the éclair smashed between them as they moved urgently together, the cream cold on their skin and melting in the heat of their bodies. The scent of chocolate and vanilla enveloped them as she climaxed in a sweet rush of euphoria, feeling Bill soon follow.

Dazed, she gasped then as he peeled himself off the sticky mess between them, the pastry a shell on her stomach, chocolate and cream smeared over them. Like he had with her hand, he carefully, methodically licked her clean. He nibbled the pastry and slurped up the cream and his hands flexed and rubbed along her hips, skimmed up her ribs, teased and pinched her breasts. And then he pressed forward to kiss her and she moaned as his body settled against hers, tasting the broken pastry on his lips feeling his thigh hard between her slick ones. He rocked against her for a long, slow kiss that simmered in her blood and then he sat back. Some of the cream and chocolate smeared on his stomach had transferred to her, and again he carefully, carefully licked her clean. And then he slid lower and she was moaning and writhing in earnest as he reenacted his licking and nibbling and sucking where she had hoped he would go.

More, she wanted more. She pulled at him and pressed him onto his back, feeling his cock fully harden against her palm as they groaned in each other's mouths. And then she was riding him, moving feverishly. She rubbed his hand across his stomach and he moaned as she licked and sucked his fingers in turn. And then she placed his wet fingers against her clit and felt his gasp as he rubbed and flicked his fingers against her, her hands braced on his chest as she slammed down faster and faster, until there was nothing left but sensation, his body hard beneath her, his hands tracing pleasure over her body and she tensed and cried out, feeling more than hearing him cry out too.

Fleur lay atop him panting for a long time, softly licking a bit of chocolate smeared below his left nipple. When she could think again, she decided that Bill had a point regarding a better way to eat an éclair. She moved further up with a nibble.

He groaned a laugh and murmured, "still hungry?"

"But of course; you ate my éclair!" And she bit him lightly. That made him laugh even more as he summoned his pastry and offered it to her.

"Only fair. And speaking of fair, you'd best eat it fast or I'll have this one too." And he waggled his eyebrows at her and groped her arse.

"Mm, continue to do that," she instructed as she propped herself up on his chest and proceeded to slowly and lavishly consume the éclair with proper attention as he groaned a soft _what have I got myself into?_

Later, Fleur reflected that he had got himself and her into a sticky mess and a wash was indicated. That was when they proved that her focus and style with an éclair translated nicely to other things as well. This pleased her so well that she did not even mind when Bill suddenly laughed whilst they were snugged up on the sofa together and called her _pâte à choux_. It was very difficult to work up the proper indignation with his flavor still lingering on her palate and as pet names went she supposed there could be worse.

**Author's Note:**

> * _roux_ French for 'readhead' (m.).  
>  * _bécasse_ means 'silly twit' in French idiom.  
>  * _habibi_ means 'my beloved' in Arabic, although it's used in a wide range of degree. This is the masculine form commonly in songs and poetry rather than the grammatically accurate choice.  
>  * The song Fleur sings: 'Le Petit Ver de Terre' or 'The Little Earthworm' (mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=2987&c=22) This site is sluggish to load.  
> * The muggle comic (cartoonstock.com/directory/p/pyramids_of_Egypt.asp)  
> * Fleur's dress is inspired by this sweater (ravelry.com/patterns/library/mata-hari-2)  
> * final disclaimer, I realize that Fleur's last name does not translate into the title, but it fit too well not to use.


End file.
